ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Challenge
by chasingriver
Summary: Stories for ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Challenge. Each day has a separate prompt. See the tumblr link on my profile page for details. Ratings will vary.
1. Day 2

**A/N:** This is Day 2 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Awkward sex / things that don't go as planned**"

I'm starting with Day 2, because I came up with the list on January 2nd. No one said you had to start on Day 1!

Thanks to Deklava for the beta!

**Warnings**: sibling incest. (Since the OTP I'm writing here is Mycroft/Sherlock, it's safe to assume that this warning will apply to all of them, but I'll keep putting it here anyway)

**Summary**: All Sherlock wants is one night alone in the flat. Well, not alone, exactly...

* * *

Sherlock tapped away on his laptop, determined not to make eye contact with John. In the past ten minutes, John had stormed around the flat in a huff, and then he'd collapsed into his chair and read the newspaper with such force that Sherlock seriously feared for the structural integrity of the paper. Worse still, it looked like he was gearing up for a second round of flat-storming. Any eye contact was just asking for trouble, as he'd doubtless be on the receiving end of a lengthy rant about the Perils of Dating.

He was just about to contact Mycroft when his mobile vibrated with a new text.

_Has John left yet? MH_

_No. She stood him up and he's sulking. Loudly. SH_

_Oh Lord. Which one? MH_

_The teacher one, I think. I can never keep track. SH_

_Make an excuse and come over here then. MH_

_Send a car. SH_

_Of course. Five minutes. MH_

"Molly has some new tissue samples she wants me to examine," he said, without making eye contact.

"Now? She doesn't usually work the night shift."

"I think she's filling in for someone. Must run; she said they need them soon. I'll be back later."

"Want me to come with you?"

_Not unless you'd like to have sex with Mycroft. Not as if I'd let you. _"No, I'll be fine. Back soon." He gave John a tight smile and grabbed his coat and scarf. He didn't even bother to put them on as he dashed down the stairs, worried that John would decide to follow him.

He glanced at his phone as he put on his coat in the front hallway. _Four more minutes. _John would expect him to hail a taxi, not wait on the pavement for an unmarked black car. With any luck, he wouldn't look out the window, but his luck tonight hadn't gone particularly well. John had seen to that.

They _always _met at Mycroft's townhouse. He'd just wanted to indulge in the novelty of sex in his own bed for a change. John's atrocious luck with dating and his determination to follow Sherlock around London like a homeless puppy made that an increasingly rare option. _It's alright for Mycroft. He doesn't have a flatmate to evade._

He closed the front door behind him and stood in the entrance. If John looked out now, he'd be beyond his line of sight. _Three minutes. _If a car pulled up outside the flat though, John was sure to look out of the window. _Better to have the car meet me on the next road down. _He hurried down the road, as close to the buildings as he could manage, and texted Mycroft.

_Have the car turn onto Melcome. I'll meet it there. SH_

_It's stuck in traffic. Another ten minutes at most. Wait in the station, I don't want you to freeze. Sorry. MH_

_Your concern is touching, but I'd rather freeze than endure the teeming masses. You know I avoid the tube like the plague. SH_

_If someone gave you samples of the plague, I suspect you'd be at Barts, analysing them. Still, point taken. I'll meet you on Melcome. MH_

Sherlock read the text twice. Mycroft was actually _in _the car? That was almost unheard of.

His phone buzzed again.

_Surprised? MH_

Sherlock smiled.

_A little. You never meet me in the car. SH_

_It's been a long week. I want all the time we can get. MH_

_I am not having sex in a car. SH_

_I certainly never suggested we should. My bed is far more comfortable. I just wanted to see you. MH_

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. Half of him wanted to shoot back some biting remark about sentiment, and the other half thrilled to its rare display. It took him longer than usual to compose his reply. Mycroft would notice. He couldn't deny that he wanted to see him just as badly, but he didn't want to come right out and say it, either.

_Agreed. SH_

That should be sufficiently vague.

He pulled his scarf more tightly around his neck to seal out the cold.

_Almost there. MH_

Sherlock peered back down Baker Street and could make out the dark shape of the chauffeured car, waiting in the line of traffic for the lights to change.

When it pulled up, he quickly opened the door and got inside.

Mycroft awaited him with a warm smile. "Hello," he said, softly.

"Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock smiled back at him, glad to finally be together.

There was no trace of the bickering and cynicism they displayed around others, just a fondness they never let anyone else see.

"The whole evening has been a bit of a disaster, hasn't it? I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you wanted to meet at yours."

Sherlock shrugged. "I feel as though I should apologise, except that it's entirely John's fault. Well, his girlfriend's fault, really. Perhaps you could find him a better girlfriend." He'd meant it as a joke, but they simultaneously stilled and squinted their eyes in thought.

"That's really not a bad idea, but I'll deal with that later." He pulled Sherlock in closer and gave him a soft kiss. "It's nice to see you."

Mycroft's lips were warm and Sherlock pulled him back in for another kiss. "Mmm," he agreed. Sherlock eventually pulled away and leaned up against him, enjoying the warmth and Mycroft's mildly intoxicating scent: fine wool and expensive cologne.

Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh as the car darted through traffic, back towards Kensington. With one finger, he idly traced patterns on his brother's trousers.

After a few minutes, Sherlock abruptly stilled his hand.

Mycroft looked up, concerned, but Sherlock just smiled as he moved Mycroft's hand much further up his thigh in a clear invitation.

"I thought you didn't want to have sex in a car?"

"Unless your definition of 'sex' has gotten awfully comprehensive, Mycroft, I think we're fine. Besides, we're almost there; not even you can get me off _that _quickly."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

Mycroft's hand brushed teasingly across his crotch and Sherlock arched up to meet it. His brother capitulated and Sherlock moaned at the deliciously firm pressure Mycroft applied to his groin.

"Don't get too excited, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice low and dark. He nipped at Sherlock's ear, then added teasingly, "We do have to look like _brothers_ when we go into my flat." His hand kept moving, and Sherlock had no intention of stopping it.

"We _are_ brothers," he replied in a rough voice. "We're just not _normal_."

Mycroft's mouth was doing delicious things to his neck when his phone buzzed with a text message.

They both ignored it.

Thirty seconds later, it buzzed again.

Sherlock fumbled for it in his pocket and tossed it to the other side of the car.

They went back to their kissing, but when the phone rang a minute later, neither of them was surprised.

"Bloody hell! One night. Is that so much to ask?" Sherlock fumed, before he found the phone and retrieved it from the floor. His voice was calm and a study in boredom as he answered, "Yes?"

"It's John. Are you at Barts yet? Lestrade just called and he wants us to meet him at a murder scene. I have the address."

"Text it to me. I'll meet you there." He disconnected.

"It's fine," Mycroft started, although the disappointment in his eyes and tone of voice told a different story.

"No, it's not," Sherlock replied with a devious smile. "I refuse to let him completely ruin our evening. I didn't say _when _I'd meet him, and _we_ just pulled up at your flat. I'd say 'the vagaries of London traffic' earn us at least a half hour of vigorous sex on that comfortable bed of yours before I have to go anywhere."


	2. Day 3

**A/N:** This is Day 3 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Body Fluids**"

Thanks to Deklava for the beta!

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: A night at the opera

* * *

Sherlock straightened his black bow-tie in the mirror and removed the tuxedo jacket from its hanger on the back of the bathroom door. _At least it's not tails_, he thought. He didn't have a problem with ridiculously formal occasions, but those usually took place at the manor. There, he had the cupboard space for this sort of thing. Here in the flat, the tuxedo risked interaction with all kinds of dangers: his latest decomposition experiment in the kitchen for one. It was best to get dressed and leave the flat as quickly as possible. Even a quick email check on his laptop was a bad idea - cuffs dragging through God-knows-what. Mrs Hudson really needed to do a better job with that.

John had a cup of tea in his hand and was about to sit in his chair as Sherlock walked into the living room. He reared his head in surprise. "Where the hell are you going? I thought we were ordering takeout tonight. I didn't realise there was a dress code."

"I'm off to the opera with Mycroft. I'm sure I told you."

"I'm sure you didn't," John said with exasperation. "So it's just me for dinner then?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Why are you going? You don't even _like_ opera. And I'm surprised you want to spend three hours with Mycroft at one. Is there a section just for bickering?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can be quiet when the occasion demands it, John. Besides, I'm not doing it for Mycroft; I'm doing it for Mummy. She bought the tickets." He gave John a wry smile, and continued, "She hopes it will bring us closer together." _If only she knew, _he thought with amusement.

"Well, good luck with that," John snorted. "What are you going to see?"

"Um, I'm not sure… something Italian I think."

"Well, it's nice to see you so interested in the arts," John said, with a trace of sarcasm.

"Right. Well, I'm off. I'll be back late."

Mycroft met him with the car. As the chauffeur closed the door, Mycroft gave him an appreciative glance. "Well, don't you look dashing," he murmured. "You should dress up more often. It suits you."

"Thank you, Mycroft. You look rather 'dashing' yourself, but then you've always done the suit thing better than I have. What is it we're going to see again? John asked, and I had no idea."

Mycroft sighed. "_La Traviata_. I did tell you, you know."

"I'm sure you did, but I clearly don't need to remember it when you'll tell me again, do I? Look, do we really have to go? Can't we just lie and say we went?"

"I promised Mummy we'd go. I'm sure there will be a test afterwards. We have a box, though."

"Your point being?"

"It'll be just the two of us. I'm sure we can find _something_ entertaining to do during the slow parts."

Sherlock laughed. "Slow parts? I thought you enjoyed opera."

"I do. But there are always slow parts."

The car dropped them off outside the opera house, and they blended into the crowd of well-heeled socialites in evening gowns and distinguished-looking gentlemen in formal wear.

Sherlock muttered things under his breath as they passed certain couples. _Mistress. Drunk. Prostitute. Gay. Drunk. Drunk. High. Wishes he was high. Wishes he was gay._

Mycroft stifled a laugh and somehow managed to kick him without breaking stride. "Hush," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock murmured, "let me have a little fun."

"Later," he replied, with a knowing look.

They both got a glass of Lagavulin at the bar and made their way to the box seats.

The opera hall was very old and very traditional in its design. Its box seats afforded both privacy and prime people-watching opportunities. Mycroft pulled the curtain closed behind them.

"See, I told you they were good seats."

Sherlock observed the throngs below and commented on the various couples. Mycroft had no objections, now that they were out of earshot, and he joined in with deductions of his own. "New money; the jewellery's all wrong. See that one? She's here with her boyfriend. She doesn't realise her husband is here with his. That might be an interesting scene in the foyer later."

Sherlock just stared at him. "Alright, the wife is obvious, but how do you know her husband is here when she doesn't even know?"

"I work with him. He's just over there."

Sherlock grinned. "Ah."

The lights finally dimmed and the opera began.

Sherlock inched his chair closer to Mycroft's.

"Don't get too close, Sherlock; the people on the other side of the hall can see us," Mycroft whispered.

"Why should I care?"

"Because they're all insufferable gossips, and it will get back to Mummy and my employers."

"Well then, I suppose I'll just have to be subtle, won't I?"

Mycroft let out a quiet huff. "That'll be the day." As the orchestra launched into the overture, he added, "Have you ever played any Verdi? I miss hearing you practise."

"Stop trying to change the subject."

"I wasn't. You should bring your violin to the house sometimes."

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "Mm, because 'quick visits to the morgue to assist Molly' would _definitely_ require my violin. It's hard enough to come up with believable excuses to see you as it is."

"Well, the next time John goes off to some conference, I think we should take full advantage of it."

Sherlock's look softened, and he nodded. "Yes, they're too few and far between, if you ask me." He slouched down in his chair a little. "How long does this thing go on?"

"It's a good hour and a half until the intermission. I recommend you sip your scotch."

"I can think of better things to do with my mouth."

Mycroft swallowed, and then replied in a slow whisper, "As much as I would _dearly_ love that, you know we can't. Stop being a tease."

"No sense of adventure. For all they know, I could be retying my shoelace."

"For ten minutes? With your head bobbing up and down in my lap?"

"Five, at most," Sherlock replied with a grin. "Probably less."

"Still a bit thorough for a shoelace, don't you think?"

He shrugged and placed his hand on Mycroft's thigh. "Subtle it is, then." His long fingers skimmed over the fine cloth of Mycroft's trousers as he inched his hand towards his brother's groin.

"That's not particularly subtle."

"You're right, it's not." Sherlock took his hand away, which earned him a quick look of disappointment before Mycroft caught himself.

He sat and tried to be interested in the opera for as long as he could stand it. Mycroft mostly kept his eyes on the stage, but Sherlock noticed every fleeting glance his brother cast in his direction.

He finally gave in to his urges; he didn't think Mycroft would mind. He carefully shifted in his seat and worked his hand onto the small of Mycroft's back. His brother adjusted to give him a little more room.

"Is that subtle enough for you?" Sherlock whispered with a smile.

"Perhaps a little too subtle, although God knows I never thought I'd live to say that about _you_."

Sherlock tried to negotiate the maze of tuxedo jacket, waistcoat, and shirt in order to find the warm skin of his brother's lower back. If he'd been standing, it might have been possible, but sitting down, there was no chance. He huffed in frustration and pulled his hand back.

"Giving up so easily, Sherlock?"

"Of course not. I'm just going to go with 'less subtle'."

They both smiled.

The orchestra reached a conveniently rambunctious portion of the score, and Sherlock used the ambient noise to cover his fumblings with Mycroft's waistcoat and trousers. He slid his hand between the folds of trouser fabric only to encounter his brother's silk boxers. Rolling his eyes, he worked his hand underneath the waistband and finally found the hot, silky skin of Mycroft's cock. He was already half-hard.

"Enjoying the opera, Mycroft?" he said, teasingly.

"Something like that."

If his rapidly hardening length was any indication, Sherlock's ministrations were far more enjoyable.

Sherlock slowly moved his hand along the shaft, pausing to rub small circles with his thumb just beneath the head.

Mycroft shifted awkwardly in his seat, so Sherlock simply tightened his grasp.

"Sit still and pay attention, Mycroft. Didn't you say there'd be a test later? I'm sure you don't want to miss anything."

"Bastard," Mycroft muttered.

A large bead of pre-ejaculate had gathered at the tip of his cock, and Sherlock used his thumb to smear it across the head. The orchestra conveniently masked Mycroft's small gasp.

It wasn't his favourite way to bring Mycroft to orgasm; he much preferred his brother's cock down his throat. But he _was_ good at this. The slick fluid eased the way for his hand, and he palmed the head of it, twisting his hand over the sensitive skin of the glans and using his fingers to stimulate the corona. He flicked one finger across his fraenulum, and his brother's hips jerked involuntarily. He'd been assiduously avoiding eye contact; they were supposed to be _pretending_ to watch the opera, after all. Mycroft's reaction was just too much though; he had to look, if only for a second.

He rarely saw Mycroft undone, and never in public. Mycroft's fingers grasped the edges of the chair so tightly that all the blood had gone out of them, and he was biting his bottom lip in an effort to remain silent. Sherlock smiled to himself; if he remembered this piece correctly, the orchestra should be transitioning into a quiet section any second now. And he knew his brother well enough to recognise the signs of an impending orgasm. He guessed Mycroft was too far gone to know where they were in the orchestral score, and he gave him the few long, hard strokes that sent him over the edge… just as the orchestra dropped to nothing.

He allowed himself another quick look. Mycroft's eyes had rolled back and his eyelids fluttered; his limbs were rigid and his hips bucked into Sherlock's hands one final time as he came violently, all over his boxers and Sherlock's hand. He never made a sound, and anyone viewing him from the waist up would have only wondered at the odd eye movements and the bitten lip. The hall was too dim to notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead and his flushed cheeks. It had probably taken almost as much effort to remain silent as it had for Sherlock to give him the orgasm in the first place.

Mycroft sat there for a few long minutes as he tried to compose himself. Sherlock left his hand where it was - covered in spunk and palming his brother's cock. When his breathing finally returned to normal, Mycroft leaned over to Sherlock and whispered, "You knew the quiet movement was up next, didn't you." It wasn't even a question, and Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer. He just smiled.

"Don't I get a thank you? A handkerchief would be nice, as well. I forgot to bring one."

"Mm, thank you. It was lovely, Sherlock; the best opera I've seen in ages. But a handkerchief? I think not. I believe your little ploy with the timing demands a forfeit."

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

"You're so fond of using your mouth - I want you to suck your fingers clean. And I suggest you be rather quick about it; I believe it's almost time for the intermission." He gave Sherlock a wicked smile.

Sherlock shot him a glare, but his heart wasn't in it. Quite the opposite; just the idea was making his cock twitch with interest. He carefully removed his hand from Mycroft's trousers and placed one finger at a time in his mouth, slowly sucking the still-warm fluid from each one and letting his cheeks hollow a little with the suction.

Mycroft gaped at him, and then he realised his mouth was open and abruptly closed it. "Jesus, Sherlock, at least pretend to tie your shoelace or something. You look like you're sucking on a lolly."

"You're the one who wouldn't let me borrow the handkerchief," Sherlock smirked, and snaked his hand back into Mycroft's trousers to retrieve some more. "At least let me finish the job." He wrapped his hand around Mycroft's softening cock, wiping it clean of the remaining semen. This time, he did bend over slightly to make his finger-sucking less obvious; he'd already succeeded in mortifying his brother - there was no point in jeopardising either of them any further, just to belabour the point.

"You seem to be enjoying that," Mycroft whispered.

"And why shouldn't I? You taste delicious."

Mycroft busied himself with the complicated task of returning his tuxedo to a presentable appearance. "I think the boxers are a lost cause," he muttered.

"Something to remember me by," Sherlock countered with a grin.

He started to wipe his hand dry on his trousers, but Mycroft grabbed his wrist. "No, don't. Bring your hand up near your face… there. Can you still smell it? Just faintly?"

Sherlock gave his brother an incandescent grin. "I do. And you're a complete perv."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," Mycroft replied, smirking. "I dare you not to wash your hands until the opera is finished - but you have to go out and mingle at intermission. Sow my wild oats with a few well-placed handshakes."

Sherlock almost snorted with delight. "I do love to meet new people."


	3. Day 4

**A/N:** This is Day 4 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Bondage**"

Thanks to Deklava for the beta!

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Lestrade's loss is Sherlock's gain.

* * *

Mycroft sat at his dining room table and watched Sherlock make short work of a very nice piece of fish and some salad greens.

"You're really not bad at this cooking thing, Mycroft," he said, sounding surprised. "It does make a change."

"Eating, you mean?"

"Well, eating real food. John isn't much for cooking."

"And I don't suppose _you_ ever do any."

Sherlock just snorted.

They'd met at Mycroft's townhouse on a Friday evening. John had gone to stay with Harry for the weekend, and Sherlock hadn't enquired any further than that. Dinner finished, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and looked smug.

"What?" Mycroft asked.

"Aren't you going to ask me what I did today?"

"Did it involve something other than pestering that lovely Detective Inspector?"

"He phones me, not the other way around," Sherlock countered, a little too quickly.

Mycroft just smiled. Easy bait. He knew all the weaknesses in Sherlock's armour, and sometimes Sherlock practically begged to have them exploited. It kept his arrogance from becoming completely overwhelming. "Sorry, Sherlock. What did you do today?"

Sherlock's features still bore the beginnings of a sulk, but the question lured him out and he gave Mycroft a grin. He walked over to the coat rack and dug through his pockets, pulling out a pair of shiny handcuffs with a flourish.

Mycroft groaned and cradled his face in his hands. "Stealing his badges isn't interesting enough anymore?"

"Oh, come on, Mycroft. At least I can _use _these."

Mycroft looked up with interest. "Precisely what do you mean by _that_, Sherlock? Are you running an experiment on bruising patterns?"

Sherlock looked slightly flustered. "No. It's just… well, John had bookmarked a few sites on his laptop, and some of them involved handcuffs." He stood a little straighter and seemed to gain some confidence. "I thought we could try them."

Mycroft met his gaze and held it. He stayed silent for just a little longer than necessary before he replied, in very even tones, "Did you, now?" He punctuated the end with a slightly raised brow.

Sherlock broke his gaze and started to pace the room.

"Stop." One word, in a quiet yet commanding tone.

Sherlock immediately froze in his tracks.

Mycroft walked towards him, very slowly, not breaking eye contact.

"How, exactly, did you imagine we'd use them, Sherlock?" His brother's body language screamed equal parts doubt and nervous excitement. Sherlock chewed frantically at his lower lip even as he struggled to control his breathing. Mycroft reached his brother and continued walking. Sherlock turned to face him, and Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't move." Once again, Sherlock froze.

This development fascinated him. Sherlock had never shown any sort of submissive tendencies, certainly not overt ones. Mycroft had long ignored his brother's irritating desire to be in control of every situation, dismissing it as a defence mechanism. What if Sherlock actually _wanted _exactly the opposite?

He stood directly behind him - not touching him at all, but leaning in so close that his lips almost brushed Sherlock's ear. "Tell me," he whispered, "did you want me to use them on _you_?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. The silence was deafening.

Mycroft coaxed the handcuffs from Sherlock's right hand. He seemed to almost have forgotten that they were there.

He took the cold steel rings and ran them gently over his brother's cheekbone. Once again, Sherlock moved to face him. "Stop." Sherlock immediately obeyed. This was fascinating indeed. He tried to recall the last thing that had silenced Sherlock this effectively. He raised an eyebrow in surprise when he remembered: it had been the first time he'd returned Sherlock's sexual advances.

_Well._

_You learn something new every day. _

He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and turned him so they faced each other.

"Would you like me to restrain you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What did you have in mind? One wrist manacled to the headboard? Or perhaps your arms cuffed behind your back as I take you on your knees?" He kept his words soft and quiet; the images they conjured up in Sherlock's mind would be more than loud enough.

His brother whimpered slightly.

Mycroft placed his hand at the small of Sherlock's back and guided him towards the bedroom.

"Sit on the bed."

He cupped Sherlock's face with his hand. "If you change your mind about this, at any time, just tell me."

Sherlock nodded.

He held out the cuffs for Sherlock to see. "While I'm sure the images on John's computer were compelling, these aren't the best things for bondage. They can cause horrible bruising."

"How on earth would _you_ know?"

Mycroft smiled. Sherlock had once again found his tongue.

"University was very educational. In many ways. Don't worry, I have other things we can use. Give me a minute."

He'd never been entirely sure why he'd kept his leather gear; he still had a full set of cuffs, a couple of collapsible spreader bars, even a body harness. Not to mention the toys. He smiled to himself; he couldn't imagine wearing the body harness these days, but Sherlock would probably look spectacular in it. He retrieved the plastic storage bin from behind the row of neatly-hung suits. He'd kept it around… well, mostly in the hope that he'd be able to use it again one day, he supposed. And now it seemed as if that was a distinct possibility.

He removed the wrist cuffs and a snap hook from the bin. He thought for a second and also grabbed a leather belt. Then he stepped back into the bedroom. He handed the leather cuffs to Sherlock, who examined them.

"These are _yours_?" he asked, incredulously. "You never told me…" he trailed off.

Mycroft smiled. "You never asked," he replied.

"Right." He blinked.

"So, do you still want to do this?" It was a valid question. He wasn't sure how _he'd_ respond, should he find out that Sherlock had an extensive background in bondage and leather, as unlikely as that was.

Sherlock gave him one of those dazzling grins. "Of course," he replied, and started unbuckling the leather cuffs.

_Of course._

It took Sherlock less than a minute to completely undress. It only took that long because Mycroft admonished him for dropping his clothes in a heap and made him fold them neatly. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the scolding, and Mycroft wondered how he'd failed to pick up on this for all these years. He silently thanked Lestrade for his inability to hold on to his handcuffs.

Sherlock reclined on the bed, propped up with his elbows at his sides. His usual arrogant expression was back, but Mycroft sensed an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Leaving his own clothes on, he crawled onto the bed. He pushed Sherlock completely onto his back, then grasped his wrists and pinned them above his head. Sherlock moaned a little and ground his hips up against Mycroft's. Mycroft smiled and kissed him. Hard. When Sherlock kissed back with just as much intensity and writhed beneath him, his concerns about Sherlock's desire to participate vanished.

Mycroft knelt astride Sherlock's chest and fastened a padded leather cuff to each of his thin wrists. Then he clipped the cuffs together, looped the belt between Sherlock's arms so that it rested against the clip, and secured it around the bedpost. He climbed off the bed and pulled Sherlock's body down so that his arms were stretched tightly above his head.

He'd been meaning to get undressed, of course, but seeing Sherlock like that - stretched out, tied up, and achingly hard - utterly derailed his train of thought. Blinding explosion. No survivors. He stood there and gaped in awe for a few long seconds.

Sherlock roused him out of his trance with a, "Well?"

"Wha…?" Mycroft replied, a little dazed.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

"You have no idea…" he swallowed. "No idea how you _look_ right now." Seeing Sherlock like this was affecting him far more than he thought it would. In _far _more sexual ways.

"If your complete lack of coherence is anything to go by, I think I do. Now get undressed already and fuck me."

"Don't be rude," he retorted, but he was already pulling his clothes off as fast as he could.

He climbed back onto the bed and straddled Sherlock's legs. "I think you should be a little more polite when you're at my mercy like this," he teased. "I might decide not to fuck you at all. Perhaps I'll just take your mouth and let you sort yourself out."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," he said, and started to move towards Sherlock's chest.

"You're right," Sherlock cut in, quickly. "I should have been more polite."

"Hm, that's what I thought," Mycroft replied, smiling. "Perhaps you'd like to try now?"

"Get undressed already and fuck me… please?" he said, coyly, mimicking his earlier statement.

"You'll get what I give you, Sherlock. After all, I don't see that you can do much from that position."

Sherlock tested the bonds around his wrists and twisted underneath him, but Mycroft's body held his legs firmly in place.

"I have other plans," Mycroft said, and rubbed his fingers teasingly over Sherlock's engorged cock. Shifting forward slightly, he lined up their cocks, then held out his hand in front of Sherlock's mouth. He instinctively sucked in two fingers, liberally coating them with saliva. "I'm sure you can figure out what they involve." Sherlock nodded, and licked a wet stripe up Mycroft's palm. "Good boy," Mycroft purred.

He wrapped his slick hand around both their cocks and started stroking. _God, yes. This is what I needed. _He was entirely too far gone already to fuck him. It would have been over as soon as he'd pushed his cock inside his brother's arse. This was perfect though: the pressure from his hand combined with the slick rub of his brother's cock against his own felt like heaven. Sherlock's moans and undulating body seemed to indicate that he felt the same way.

It didn't take long before they both came in thick spurts over Mycroft's fist. Mycroft wiped his hand off on his own stomach and then leaned down to kiss him. "Good?"

"Mm," Sherlock replied hazily, and Mycroft leaned over him and undid the cuffs from his wrists. "I'd like to do that again, sometime," he added.

"Oh, we will be," Mycroft replied with a grin, thrilled that he could share this with his brother.


	4. Day 5

**A/N:** This is Day 5 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Breath Play**"

I regret including 'breath play' in the original list of prompts. It can be dangerous and I should have been thinking more about that when I made the list. That's why I changed the original list to contain 'nipple play' for Day 5 instead of 'breath play'.

For more information on why breath play can be dangerous, see Jay Wiseman's essay on it here: "www dot jaywiseman dot com / SEX_BDSM_Breath_Medical_Realities . php". Jay Wiseman is a BDSM non-fiction author.

That said, I did address the safety issue somewhat, so I decided to publish it. However, there is a fair amount of angst with the porn, so you've been warned.

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Sherlock inadvertently discovers breath play.

* * *

The first time they did it, it was completely inadvertent.

John was still off at Harry's, and Mycroft had come round for the evening. They'd had some tea - Mycroft had insisted - then dispensed with the rest of the pleasantries and gone straight to the bedroom. Their couplings were infrequent enough, and precious enough, that neither of them wanted to waste time with idle chat.

Sherlock had ended up on his hands and knees with Mycroft knelt behind him, fucking him so hard he thought he might split in half. Not that he minded; he was the one begging for more.

Each time Mycroft's balls slapped against his skin; each time he felt that glorious rub across his gland, he grunted his appreciation. He wasn't even aware of it, he just wanted more. Harder. Now.

Mycroft took Sherlock's slick cock in his hand. Every thrust sent it sliding through Mycroft's fist, bringing him even closer.

And apparently making him even louder.

Afterwards, he'd deny he'd been that loud, but he knew he probably had been.

"God, My, harder; I'm so close!"

"Hush! Do you want Mrs Hudson in here?"

He didn't care _who_ came in at that moment. He just wanted more. He finally felt the hot tight spring uncurl in his gut, and let out a rough scream of pleasure.

Mycroft clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth as he came, in an effort to keep him quiet.

Except he hadn't covered his mouth, exactly. He'd covered both his mouth and his nose, and Sherlock couldn't breathe. He reflexively sucked against Mycroft's palm, but his brother was in the throes of his own orgasm, and he failed to notice.

Not that Sherlock cared. The orgasm ripped through him, and each shuddering, breathless pulse of it felt like a warm blanket of white noise. It felt like flying. It felt utterly incredible. And it felt like it went on for much longer than it actually did.

Mycroft took his hand off Sherlock's mouth immediately after he'd come, and the oxygen hit Sherlock's brain like bright sunlight as he sucked in a lungful of air. As they both collapsed into a messy heap on the bed, Mycroft realised what he'd done.

"Oh my God. Are you alright? I didn't realise."

Sherlock nodded, still wearing a slightly stupid smile. "Hypoxia," he said. "I'd never thought of applying it to sex."

"Oh, _fuck_," Mycroft swore, very uncharacteristically. "Look, just because you got off on it doesn't make it a good idea. It's dangerous."

His stupid smile got even wider. "You know how much I enjoy 'dangerous'."

Mycroft rolled over and pinned him to the bed. "We're not doing it again, do you understand?" His voice was firm and serious, and Sherlock could care less.

"Who said anything about 'we'? I do understand the concept of masturbation, you know."

"Oh, God," Mycroft said, in a despairing voice. "No, Sherlock, you can die that way." He stared at him and his brows creased in frustration. "Look. If we do this together - _sometimes _- do you promise me you won't do it by yourself? _Ever_?"

He rolled his eyes. Mycroft was right of course; it was dangerous. Hypoxia could induce euphoria, and apparently one hell of an orgasm, but it could also lead to accidental death. Solitary play probably wasn't the _best _idea.

"Fine," he agreed with a sigh. "I promise."

* * *

The next time, Sherlock had asked - almost pleaded - to try it again.

They were on their sides; Mycroft lay curled behind him, with a strong arm wrapped over his shoulder and across his chest, holding him in place as he pounded into him. This time, as he started to come, Mycroft pulled his arm more tightly against the side of Sherlock's neck.

_Restriction of blood flow through the carotid artery reduces oxygen flow to the brain and causes a buildup of carbon dioxide, _he thought in one long rush of words, as the warmth and noise enveloped him and his vision dimmed at the edges, and he came, hard.

Mycroft wasn't normally chatty after sex, but this time, he was downright pensive.

"What's wrong, Mycroft?" He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"Look…" he sighed. "I've read up on this. It's just not safe. It can cause PVCs that could lead to cardiac arrest, and the buildup of carbon dioxide can cause potentially fatal blood pH issues. We can't do this. I don't care how low the odds are. I'd be devastated if I lost you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I'd caused it."

It was pretty much the answer he'd expected. He'd found the same data.

They both lay there in silence for a long time. Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Alright. But there's something I still want you to do."

Mycroft gave him a puzzled look.

"It wasn't _entirely _the rush of it. I'd like you to just put your hand on my neck sometimes, when we're having sex. It makes me feel… I don't know, like I'm giving you control."

Mycroft's face registered surprise, but he just nodded. "Of course."

* * *

They never did experiment with it again. They both discovered that sensation-induced endorphins were just as much fun and didn't have the risks.

But Sherlock still wore his scarf pulled through in a loop, and sometimes, when he was having a miserable day, he'd tighten it just enough so he could pretend it was his brother's warm palm encircling his throat.


	5. Day 6

**A/N:** This is Day 6 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Corsets**"

**Beta**: deklava

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Sherlock buys Mycroft an unexpected birthday present.

* * *

"Is this an awkward attempt at humour, Sherlock?"

He peered over the birthday card containing the gift certificate for a custom corset. _Your attempts at provocation are certainly getting more creative_, he thought.

"Not at all, Mycroft. I merely think your wardrobe could benefit from a little diversity."

"How so?"

"You have_ seen_ your wardrobe, haven't you?"

"There's nothing wrong with my suits."

"No. You look very nice in them. You also look like you've walked out of the 19th century. And since the men in those days also wore corsets, I thought you might enjoy one."

Mycroft frowned at his brother and waited for further comment. There usually _was_ further comment, when it came to Sherlock.

"It was either that or a pair of high heels," he finally added, with a trace of sarcasm.

_Ah, there it is. _

"I'm surprised at you, Sherlock. Didn't you consider the possibility of both? I believe they'd go well together."

He enjoyed the brief look of shock on his brother's face before it snapped back into a mask of boredom. "I'm sure it could be arranged."

"Lovely. Do let me know when I need to be there, and," he added without a trace of sarcasm, "thank you for such a thoughtful gift."

Sherlock gave him an awkward smile, as if not sure what to make of the entire discussion.

Once his brother had left, he sat down with a cup of tea and considered their conversation. Did the gift stem from some desire on Sherlock's part, or was it simple provocation? Sherlock's relative inexperience made the former unlikely, unless he'd discovered some of the more creative parts of the internet. Provocation seemed to be the only motivation. He'd probably expected him to turn red and sputter something about the whole thing being completely inappropriate.

The first rule of negotiating with Sherlock was to keep him off balance.

And that's what this was, whether Sherlock realised it or not - a negotiation. One that Mycroft was willing to play to its logical conclusion. Carrying on a sparring match with his brother was similar to improvisational drama: always say 'yes'. Especially when he's expecting 'no'.

The moment he saw the gift certificate, he decided to say 'yes'; Sherlock wouldn't expect it. His second thought had been 'Why not?' It seemed like it could be interesting. He'd never done it before.

Mycroft had grown up entirely too fast in some respects. He'd turned thirty-five on the day of his twenty-first birthday. He never participated in university bashes or the endless nights of stag parties; getting pissed and dressing in drag. He wasn't particularly fond of heavy drinking, and he certainly didn't want fodder for the tabloids, which would either embarrass Mummy or sabotage his career. Or both.

When Sherlock had sarcastically suggested the heels, he'd been equally pragmatic. His legs were lightly muscled and toned; certainly nothing to be ashamed of. A pair of heels would accentuate them nicely. Just because he'd never considered the option didn't mean he was averse to the idea. After all, if he planned to have a corset made, it barely seemed like a stretch, fashion-wise.

By entertaining the idea, Sherlock's joke at his expense had been effectively neutralised. _At worst, I'll end up with an interesting experience. At best? Who knows. Possibly a new kink. _

Mycroft rang the doorbell at a well-kept but otherwise unassuming brick townhouse in Camden.

A slender brunette, dressed conservatively in a tailored shirt and trousers, answered the door.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes," she nodded in greeting to both of them. "I'm Ms McLayne. Please do come in."

She led them into a sitting area containing, at its centre, a large rectangular table about waist height. The glass top revealed several different types of corsets laying on black velvet just beneath its surface.

Mycroft glanced at them and realised the 'table' was more accurately a large flat file, with four more deep drawers stacked beneath the 'display' drawer.

"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing towards a sofa and two chairs. "May I get you something to drink?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you. Milk, one sugar."

"Nothing for me," replied Sherlock.

"I'll be back in a moment. Please feel free to browse the book or the samples." She nodded towards the large table.

They wandered over and peered through the glass at the corsets. Most were constructed from richly pattered silk brocade in jewel tones. They seemed to be evenly divided between the traditionally female, over-bust styles, and under-bust styles more appropriate for men.

"These are quite lovely," Mycroft murmured in appreciation. He pulled out the drawer and ran his fingers across a burgundy one with a cream filigree pattern. "Not unlike a nice tie."

Sherlock raised his brows in an odd mixture of boredom and mild amusement. "I'm surprised to see you so enthusiastic, Mycroft."

"Really? You mean you deliberately got me a gift you thought I wouldn't enjoy?" he retorted, with no small amount of satisfaction.

Sherlock studied the corsets intently, in lieu of an answer. Mycroft smirked.

Ms McLayne returned with some tea and biscuits and explained the process to them. Once Mycroft had selected a style and fabric for the corset, she'd take extensive measurements. If he was similar in size to any of their ready-to-wear styles, he could try them on to get a feel for the cut and shape of the design.

"Most men choose the underbust style," she said, "although the overbust style can also be tailored with a flat chest that simply rises higher in the front."

"I think I'd be most interested in the underbust style," Mycroft replied. "More of a waist cincher." He'd done his research online before they'd come. It wouldn't do to be unprepared.

"Very good. We have some fabrics that are particularly popular with many of our male clients; wool blends in pinstripes. The effect is not unlike a nice suit."

"Hm," Mycroft mused, "thank you, but I think I'd prefer one of the silk brocade ones."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Very good," she said, and proceeded to open a different drawer containing more examples of waist cinchers. "This model is very popular. It's cut rather high at the bottom, which allows it to be worn comfortably under clothing."

"A useful feature, I'm sure," Mycroft replied. _And one I doubt will be necessary_, he thought.

He selected a style that allowed for maximum flexibility. He wanted to be able to fuck Sherlock senseless while wearing it, after all.

"Now, as far as fabric choices…" she started, and retrieved a book full of samples. It contained everything from jewel toned silks and satins to understated cotton prints and wool suiting material.

Mycroft smiled, and almost immediately settled on two; a royal blue silk, and a matching blue silk brocade with a delicate, spider chrysanthemum design executed in a shimmering silver.

"I'd like the patterned fabric as an inset surrounding the busk and the lacing, with the solid blue at the sides."

"Of course, sir. I think that will look lovely."

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had any idea of the significance behind his choice. The fabric was stunning, of course, but the chrysanthemum symbolised imperialism and also held connotations of male homosexuality. He smiled at the thought. _Sherlock probably has no idea. Even if he once did, it doesn't seem like something he'd bother to keep in his mind palace._

She took him back to a separate area where she took his measurements. Sherlock watched with a look of faint amusement.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she said, apologetically, "but we don't have anything here that will fit you at the moment. I have something close, but it would be too large, even tightly laced. But I can assure you the finished corset will fit properly."

_That's perfect_, Mycroft thought. _The less Sherlock sees now, the greater the effect will be later. _"Of course that's not a problem," he replied. "When should I expect it to be complete?"

"Between two and three weeks, sir."

_Plenty of time. _

After they'd left, Sherlock asked him about getting the heels.

"Don't worry; I'll take care of it," he replied. He already had plans.

He phoned Ms McLayne once he got home and asked that discrete loops be added to the base of the corset with which to attach garters. Then he arranged for a private consultation with a discreet supplier of men's shoes and lingerie. This time, the visit would be _without _Sherlock.

A week later, he was pleasantly surprised by a phone call from Ms McLayne. Somehow they'd managed to finish his corset early. Perhaps it was the small 'gratuity' he'd offered when he'd phoned back about the garters. He did want to surprise Sherlock, after all. His brother wasn't expecting him to make his grand presentation for another week, at least.

He came home from work on Friday, eager to try on the whole ensemble. He'd picked up the corset that afternoon, and he'd been half-hard the entire ride home.

He laid the box containing the corset on the bed and retrieved the other items from his cupboard. The shoes, stockings and garters, and panties each rested in their own box, carefully packed in tissue paper. He'd gotten more than one pair of the panties. It seemed like a second pair might be _necessary_.

He surveyed the boxes and then took a deep, anticipatory breath before he removed the items. He licked his lips, and his heart thudded in his chest as he removed the corset from its box. It was stunning. It was _exactly _what he'd hoped.

He stripped off his clothes, forcing himself to take his time and fold them neatly on the bed.

Then he removed the rest of the items from their boxes.

He slid his foot into one of the cream-coloured silk stockings and smoothed it over his calf and towards his groin. He sucked in a breath when his fingers graced the inside of his thighs as he pulled the stocking into place. The elaborate lace top fit perfectly around his thigh and the plain silk highlighted the well-defined muscles of his legs.

The light curly hair of his legs was slightly visible if you looked hard enough, but he didn't mind. The object here was not femininity. It was power.

He put on the second stocking as slowly and carefully as the first, and then attached the matching silk garters. They temporarily fluttered uselessly around his thighs.

The panties were next. Silk, _of course. _They were cut in a fairly modest bikini shape that skimmed low across his hips; their delicate cream perfectly matched the hue of the stockings. He stood as he pulled them over his legs and eased them into place. They covered and contained his cock - in this state, at least; he wasn't completely hard. With a full erection, it would be impossible. He smiled to himself. _Somehow, I don't think that will matter. _

He removed the corset from its tissue-paper nest. _Stunning. _The smooth, dark-blue silk contrasted beautifully with the embellished sections, just as he'd hoped. And the softness of the fabric balanced the magnificent solidity of the steel boning. He loosened the laces and unhooked the five posts of the busk, then he wrapped the exquisite silk armour around his waist.

He pulled the laces snug, then he clipped the bottom post of the busk into its slot and used it as a pivot to lock the other four into place.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror as he prepared to lace the corset. In theory, it was easy - work first from the top, and then from the bottom, pulling each section of the lace snug while moving the slack closer to the centre. But in practice, it was far from simple. The lacing segments were difficult to differentiate in the mirror, and by the time he'd finished, both of his shoulders had started to ache from reaching behind his back for so long and twisting to see what he was doing.

It was awkward, doing this alone. It was possible, certainly, but it would be much easier with two people.

Two people.

If this went as he hoped, Sherlock would _beg_ to assist him in the future. _And isn't that a lovely thought, _he smiled. It made him forget all about the mild ache in his shoulders.

When he'd finished, he had two long loops of laces. He repositioned the corset one last time, making sure it was fitted properly around his waist. Then, very slowly, he pulled the laces tight.

The corset exerted pressure from all sides. Surrounding him. Gripping him. He felt unexpectedly comforted by it. As he continued to tighten the laces (_Not too tight at first_, she'd told him), his body began to transform. Straight lines became subtle curves. His breathing, while unhindered, was more focused. The corset forced his posture into a more commanding pose and pressed against his lower ribs in a surprisingly pleasing manner. He tightened it a little further, and marvelled at the newfound shape of his waist. Then he tied the laces into a bow and stood back to take a look.

The blue silk was stunning against his skin, and he smoothed his hands over it. His skin lit up like a trail of fireworks beneath his touch. Even the lightest brush of his fingertips made his skin tingle. He ran his fingers down the steel boning; he felt nothing along their length - the metal didn't magnify (or even transmit) his touch like the fabric did - but they exuded a quiet strength.

It was beautiful, and powerful, and it made his own body feel almost alien. He could see now why people did this; it was an intoxicating combination of body modification and self-bondage. And he loved it.

He hadn't been this aware of his body since puberty.

He took a dangling garter and attached it to the corset. Then, realising his mistake, he laughed, unhooked it, and threaded it beneath the silk panties first. _That would have been disastrous. _He repeated the process with the rest of them; the garters pulled the stockings up into peaks on either side of his leg. _Lovely._

He was achingly, almost unbearably hard. He had been since he'd finished lacing the corset. The panties were nowhere near roomy enough now. His cock was full and heavy against his pelvis, and the deep-red head of it jutted out from the top of the cream silk panties.

He willed his mind to ignore his lust temporarily. There was one more thing. He returned to the bed and removed the matching cream-coloured heels from their box; closed-toe three-inch d'Orsay stilettos. He crouched and placed them carefully on the floor. Bending over _was_ possible - the corset didn't completely preclude it - but it was not the most comfortable position in the world, and certainly not with an erection.

He gingerly stepped into them and fought the immediate inclination to pitch forward. _Bloody hell. _Standing up straight, he assessed their impact on his body. They tipped his pelvis upward and strained new and interesting muscles in his thighs, and there was a great deal of pressure on the balls of his feet. His toes, normally uninvolved in maintaining his balance, took a sudden, necessary interest in the proceedings. He took a few hesitant steps. They were surprisingly stable.

_And they'll give me another three inches on Sherlock_,he thought_._ The height difference could potentially irritate his brother, but he suspected it would once again trigger the submissive tendencies he'd shown the other day.

He walked towards the mirror and noted how differently his body moved. Almost sinuously. His hips swayed when he walked. It was… _different. Powerful and different._

Sherlock had started this little game. A corset; high heels._ Calculated to embarrass me_. He strode back across the room, more sure of his footing now, in more than one sense. _It doesn't feel embarrassing in the least. _His face lit up as he realised he had the perfect accessory. After crouching (very carefully) to retrieve it, he surveyed his image in the mirror once more. _Perfect. _The riding crop would leave no doubt in Sherlock's mind as to which role he would take in this little game.

The creamy, freckled skin of his chest had flushed pink with arousal. _Is it the corset? The idea of Sherlock's submission? _The heels and lingerie were nice additions, but it was the other two things that really made his gut throb. He dropped the riding crop to the floor and ran both hands down his sides and across his bound abdomen. He gave himself over to the heightened sensations of his own touch and realised he couldn't deny himself any longer.

He leaned back against the bedroom wall, dug his stiletto heels into the plush carpet, and _(God, finally) _slid his hand beneath the delicate silk of the panties. He gasped as he touched his hot skin, but the corset pressed back against him, reminding him that he no longer had complete control over his own body. His fingers closed around his painfully hard cock, and he moaned as he started to slowly fuck his palm. Sighing, he ran his thumb across the head, slick with pre-ejaculate, and pressed the pad of his thumb against the slit. He rubbed small circles there, teasing himself for as long as he could stand it before stroking himself firmly back down to his base. The sweet friction sent pleasure running down his spine, and he threw his head back against the wall. His breath came in short gasps now, and his hand moved faster, almost of its own volition. He thrust his other hand down into the silk panties and massaged his balls, already tight and hard against him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this turned on while he was alone.

He paused just long enough to shove the underwear onto his thighs and stroked himself harder. His mind filled with images of Sherlock on his knees, begging to help lace the corset. _Begging for a taste of my cock. _And it was that thought that sent him over the edge. As the blinding rush of orgasm tore through him, vision whiting out at the edges, his only thought was '_Don't get any on the corset.'_

He would have collapsed against the wall in exhaustion if the corset had permitted it. As it was, he could only lean against it in a well-postured slump.

He laughed out loud.

Sherlock had unwittingly bought him a new kink for his birthday.

* * *

_To be continued (on Day 8)..._


	6. Day 7

**A/N:** This is Day 7 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Creative Sexual Positions**"

Thanks to Deklava for the beta!

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Sherlock puts himself in a compromising position.

* * *

_Mycrokft. I need your assistanbce with some4thing. Immrediately. -SH_

_I'll come by this evening. Some of us have to work for a living. What on earth is wrong with your typing? -MH_

_You'll waqnt to see thios. Trust me3. I've almnost giot it. I just needaaaaerfaveraf_

Mycroft stared at his phone in confusion; it wasn't like Sherlock to send texts in gibberish. Thirty seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

_Damn it all. Now I have to start all over again. Just get over here. -SH_

_Where's John? -MH_

_Don't know, don't really care. He's not here, and I wouldn't want his help with this anyway. -SH_

Oh. _That _sort of assistance. It was almost time to leave anyway.

He checked his calendar - empty for the rest of the day - and informed Anthea that he'd be leaving the office early.

"Enjoy your evening, sir."

"Thank you," he replied, sincerely hoping that would be the case.

He let himself into 221 with his key and made his way upstairs. When he knocked on the door to the flat, he heard a muffled response.

"Just get in here, Mycroft. It's open."

He rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock would be rude to someone he'd already inconvenienced. He walked inside to an apparently empty flat, but sounds of scuffling and the occasional 'thud' emanated from the bedroom.

"What on earth are you… Oh good Lord," Mycroft muttered as he walked into Sherlock's room. He observed his brother with a mix of fascination and amusement and raised a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

Sherlock lay on his back with his body curled above him into a C-shape. His feet rested just above his head, on the headboard. His spine was doing something a chiropractor would either be very impressed with or utterly horrified by - he wasn't sure. Most notably, Sherlock's semi-erect cock dangled tantalisingly close to his mouth as he tried in vain to pull his thighs closer to his chest.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft said with barely disguised mirth, "Auto-fellatio? Really?"

"It's possible," he said, straining to reach. "I've seen it done. I just need…" he stretched his tongue out as far as he could manage, but it still wasn't far enough. "… some assistance."

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock's phone, within reach on the bed. "You texted me while you were doing this? No wonder your spelling was so bad."

"Come on," Sherlock urged, "shut up and help me already. I can't stay in this position forever."

"Hm, I suppose not," Mycroft smirked. He took his time as he wandered closer to Sherlock's side of the bed. "So, all you need _me_ to do is this…" he pushed gently on Sherlock's thighs, pushing his cock almost - but not quite - within reach of his mouth. It was quite clear that Sherlock's spine could take the half-inch or so more; he just chose not to. It wouldn't do to give Sherlock everything he wanted all at once.

"God yes, Mycroft! Just a little more!" he pleaded. He tried to reach up and grab his thighs, but he couldn't do it without losing his already precarious balance.

Mycroft released the pressure on his thighs and Sherlock nearly screamed in frustration. "Why?" he begged.

"Oh, Sherlock. You don't think just getting it in your mouth would be enough to get you off, do you? I think you're going to need a little more help than that. I'm sure auto-fellatio is a useful skill to master, but your neck is going to get awfully sore if that's the only stimulation you have."

Sherlock braced his feet on the headboard and relaxed a little, then resorted to stroking his cock in frustration.

Mycroft opened the drawer in the bedside table.

"Are you going to help me or not, Mycroft?"

"Oh, yes, of course I'll help you. I wouldn't want to leave you in this state; not when you're _so_ close to succeeding." His voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm as he rifled through the drawer. "Ah. Here we go." He picked up a c-shaped prostate massager and some lube.

"Mycroft, stop being such a tease and… ohhh." He lapsed into silence as he glanced over and saw what Mycroft had in his hand.

"It's almost the same shape as your back at the moment," Mycroft said brightly.

"Why didn't _I_ fucking think of that?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Even if you had, dear brother, you still don't seem capable of getting close enough to your mouth, do you? You'll still need me to help you with that."

Sherlock mumbled something irritated and noncommittal as Mycroft slicked up the toy, but his mutterings turned into a deeply sensual groan as Mycroft slid the buzzing massager deep into his arse. The other half of the toy rested against his perineum, transmitting the vibrations to the sensitive area below his balls. Even in his precarious position, Sherlock squirmed at the intense sensation.

Before Sherlock could say anything else, Mycroft slowly pressed his thighs low enough that he could take his own cock in his mouth.

He wrapped his mouth around it with delight, sucking hard at first, then making it wetter with slobbering kisses as Mycroft held him in position. Mycroft let up on his legs slightly and his cock bobbed back out of reach.

"No!" he practically shouted.

"What do you say?" Mycroft taunted.

"Please!"

"Please what?"

"Please let me have my cock in my mouth!"

"Mm, that's better." Mycroft pushed his legs back down and Sherlock hungrily latched on again. "Look at you, Sherlock, so greedy for your own cock. If I'd known you could do this, I could have saved myself a lot of effort over the years."

Sherlock barely seemed to hear him, lost in the sensation of finally getting his cock in his own mouth.

Mycroft observed him with amusement and enjoyed the few minutes of relative peace, except for the eager slurping sounds of wet mouth on wet cock. Something was off, though; his brother didn't seem to be squirming nearly enough. After a brief mental diagram, he realised that the ridiculous curvature of brother's back made the prostate massager less effective. It was probably barely touching the sensitive gland, if it was even touching it at all.

Well, he could fix that.

He repositioned himself so he could keep Sherlock's thighs down with one arm; now he had a free hand. He sucked a finger into his mouth - Sherlock's hole already glistened with plenty of lube from the toy. Then, without warning, Mycroft pressed his finger into Sherlock's arse and slid it in behind the massager. He pressed the toy against Sherlock's prostate with almost brutal precision, and his brother practically screamed with pleasure, even with his own cock stuffing his mouth.

Mycroft gave him a wicked grin. "How does _that_ feel, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just moaned something unintelligible and writhed on the bed.

"See, so much better with the toy isn't it? I'll have you coming down your own throat in no time." His brother's hips jerked reflexively at his words, and Mycroft smirked. "I should have known you'd get off on the idea."

When Sherlock seemed close to orgasm, he released the pressure on the toy. Sherlock made another unintelligible noise, this one far less pleasurable. Mycroft bent his head down so he could see Sherlock's face and smiled sweetly. "What was that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes wide and tried to glare, but with his cock stretching his lips tight, the effect was comical.

"Oh, you wanted _this_?" Mycroft said, innocently, and pressed the toy back against his sweet spot.

His brother's eyes fluttered closed, and a second later he resumed sucking himself in earnest.

Mycroft let him come back to a boil, and was about to deny him again, when he heard the faint sound of the front door being unlocked.

"Fuck," he muttered, and yanked his finger out of Sherlock's arse.

His brother opened his mouth to protest, and then realised what was going on as he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Fuck!" His legs uncurled from above his head and smacked firmly onto the bed. He groped for his clothes, but his trousers were on the other side of the room.

"Get under the bedclothes," Mycroft hissed as he wiped his hand off on Sherlock's shirt and shoved the lube back into the drawer in one smooth motion.

"But the vibrator…" Sherlock retorted, twisting his body to try and remove it. Even underneath the bedclothes, it was still vaguely audible.

"There's no time," Mycroft insisted. "Follow my lead," he added, as the front door opened. "And look ill."

The footsteps stopped.

"Sherlock?" John's voice called out. "Sherlock, are you here?"

"We're in here, John," Mycroft replied.

"Mycroft, is that you?" There were sounds of shopping being placed on the kitchen table as John headed towards the bedroom. He walked in, looking confused.

"Hello, John."

"What…" he looked at Sherlock in the bed, who looked like death warmed up. "What's going on? Is he alright?"

"Well," Mycroft replied, "Sherlock wasn't feeling well, and he thought it was appropriate to interrupt my meeting with the Prime Minister so I could bring him some aspirin and make him a cup of tea. He's feeling much better now though, aren't you Sherlock?"

On cue, Sherlock managed to look a bit less deathly ill. "Why bother you when I can irritate Mycroft?" he said, with a weak smile and a slight cough.

"You might need more than a few aspirin," John said, looking concerned. "Your face is all red and it looks like you've been sweating. Are you running a fever?" He reached his hand out to feel Sherlock's forehead.

"I think the fever's just broken, actually," Mycroft replied. "Probably the aspirin. There's a nasty little twenty-four hour thing going around at my office."

John stopped and cocked his head. After a couple of seconds, he said, "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Mycroft replied.

"Some sort of buzzing noise."

Mycroft pretended to listen for a few seconds. "No, I don't hear anything. Do you, Sherlock?"

His brother shook his head. "No."

"I'm _sure _I can hear something."

"Perhaps it's the fridge," Sherlock ventured. "It was making an awful noise earlier, but I gave it a shove and it stopped. I've been meaning to mention it to Mrs Hudson."

"Huh. I'll go and have a look."

The second he walked out of the room, Sherlock pulled the buzzing vibrator from his arse and fumbled to turn the thing off. Mycroft shoved it into a tissue and slid it into the drawer a moment before John returned.

"No, the fridge was fine." He paused again, with a look of utter confusion on his face. "That's odd; I don't hear it anymore." He shrugged. "I must be getting old. Do either of you want any tea? It might make you feel better, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, thanks."

John looked at Mycroft, who replied, "No, I really must be off, thank you."

"Right, just one then. Back in a bit."

Sherlock smiled and then rounded on his brother as John left the room. "Twenty-four hour flu, Mycroft? Really?"

"It worked, didn't it? Besides, you're on the mend. I imagine, what… six or eight hours should do the trick? Perhaps tonight as well if you want to be really convincing."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "I suppose it could have been worse. He could have walked in on us."

"Indeed, and that was _quite _a compromising position you were in. I'm sorry you didn't get to finish today," he said, pressing on Sherlock's groin through the bedclothes. "But I promise I'll make it up to you," he added, and ran his tongue along the corner of his upper lip.

"Tease," Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft glanced towards the door to make sure John wasn't there, leaned down, and gave his brother a filthy kiss. "Next time, we'll do a little experiment and find out which you like better: me coming down your throat, or you…"

Sherlock threw Mycroft a lust-filled grin as his brother gathered up his coat and headed towards the door.


	7. Day 8

**A/N:** This is Day 8 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Dominance/submission**"

Thanks to Deklava for the beta!

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Sherlock finally gets to see the corset and learns firsthand just how much fun it is to let Mycroft be in charge.

* * *

Mycroft nodded blandly as he listened to the ambassador, and a subprocess in his brain scanned the conversation for anything meaningful as he allowed parts of his mind to venture elsewhere. The conversation wasn't a particularly vital one, and his upcoming tryst with Sherlock provided so much more in the way of stimulating mental challenges. Negotiating subsidies bored him to tears; plotting how to get Sherlock on his knees did not.

Sherlock's little experiment with auto-fellatio had been a pleasant distraction the previous evening, and some small part of him felt his brother deserved his belated orgasm. On _his_ terms though, not Sherlock's. He wondered if Sherlock had continued his experiment after John went to bed. _I wouldn't put it past him. _The image of his brother, curled over on himself with his own cock in his mouth, derailed his thoughts so soundly that he had to squeeze his eyes closed for a second, just to concentrate on the ambassador. No doubt he'd rigged up something with his clothing - a belt of some sort - to pull his thighs closer to his chest. He'd been less than an inch away when Mycroft arrived; it wouldn't have taken much more. Sherlock had just been too focused on the immediate prize to think clearly.

Mycroft wasn't worried about the new 'competition' from Sherlock's mouth; his own hand had been with him all his life, after all. The involvement of his mouth merely constituted a novelty. Ultimately, Sherlock craved mental stimulation far more than the mundane mechanics of physical release.

And Mycroft was the only person who could provide that.

They'd carried on a fairly normal relationship for years, if it was possible to describe an incestuous relationship between volatile geniuses as normal. Mycroft had left the more exotic components of his sexual repertoire behind him when he left university; it had been hard enough to find a willing partner _then_, and once he'd started his job… well. But then Sherlock had entered the picture, and everything changed.

And then his brother had shown up with Lestrade's handcuffs.

And everything changed again.

It was a shift in their dynamic. Perhaps not a full-time one - he wasn't sure either of them wanted that - but for Sherlock to willingly submit to him? _That _was a whole new game, and one he suspected they'd both enjoy playing for quite some time.

And he was going to start with the corset. Sherlock didn't know it yet, but he had plans for those newfound submissive tendencies - plans that involved Sherlock's forehead pressed against its deep blue silk as he knelt in front of him and sucked his cock.

He smiled and replied as the ambassador asked him a question, even as he plotted the details of Sunday's tryst. He sent the text as soon as the ambassador left the office.

_Sunday dinner at Mummy's? -MH_

_Of course. -SH_

It was their best and most reliable excuse to get Sherlock out of the flat. A weekly meal with Mummy - even Sherlock couldn't shirk that responsibility. His brother bemoaned the dullness of the weekly occasion at every chance he got, and John had never even asked him for details. Nor had he questioned the extended visit each week; everyone knew how those things with relatives just _dragged_ on.

But it was only Friday afternoon; waiting until Sunday might kill him. Besides, he wanted to surprise him with the corset; Sherlock might expect it on Sunday. He needed another excuse to get Sherlock to the townhouse.

What better way to test Sherlock's desire to submit? Make _him _come up with the excuse.

_Be at the townhouse tonight. 7pm. Don't be late. -MH_

An unusually lengthy pause ensued before Sherlock's reply.

_What should I tell John? -SH_

_I'm sure you'll think of something. -MH_

Mycroft smiled. Sherlock hadn't refused, or even complained. The thought of his brother's submission pulsed throughout his body, and he wondered if the pause indicated a similar reaction from Sherlock.

He left work at precisely five o'clock; it would give him more than adequate time to prepare for his brother's arrival. It took all his restraint not to throw off his clothes and change as soon as he entered the townhouse. The front windows only had sheers - _what would the neighbours think?_ He couldn't decide whether to put the corset on now, or to make Sherlock do it when he arrived. Each option had its merits. Having Sherlock help him would certainly make getting dressed easier, but it would come at the price of losing the initial impact of the whole outfit. Putting it on himself, as awkward as it would be, would prepare him both physically and mentally to dominate his little brother. And it would take Sherlock's breath away, at least it would if his own reaction to it had been any indication.

_Now, _he thought, _what to do for Sherlock? _He could make him strip naked, of course, but that might not be _enough_. He retrieved his leather gear from its hiding place behind his suits. _Ah, the harness._ That would do nicely. He felt torn about the collar; it had been his, when he had subbed for Andrew. It held more memories for him than the harness, and he didn't want to _confuse _that. It just didn't seem right to use it on Sherlock. _Fair enough. If he truly takes to this, I'll buy him his own. _At this stage, even the possibility of Sherlock wearing the _harness_ seemed, well… only vaguely likely.

Still, it was worth a try.

And perhaps, given Sherlock's previous reaction to the handcuffs, he had better odds than he thought. The memory of Sherlock, standing stock still at his bidding and barely breathing as Mycroft had whispered commands into his ear, sent shivers of lust down his spine. Sherlock had been impudent during sex though, making light of Mycroft's thrill at his submission. That wouldn't happen again; he'd teach his brother how to show the proper amount of respect.

He placed the corset and the lingerie on the bed. Once again, just the thought of the preparations had his cock twitching. By the time he'd put the stockings and panties on, his erection screamed for attention. He glanced at his watch on the dressing table - another half hour at least, if Sherlock arrived on time. _If_ Sherlock arrived. The idea stabbed through him. What if he didn't show up? He'd never gotten a reply to his last text, after all; perhaps he'd pushed things too far. He debated his position and eventually sent another message.

_Any problems with your excuse? -MH_

_No. I'll be there at seven. -SH_

Relief surged through him. _Good. _

_Time to put the corset on, then. _

His familiarity with the process helped a lot, and it took much less time and effort than it had previously. The effect, though, was no less stunning. He allowed himself an appraising look in the mirror. A long one. It wasn't vanity really, it was more… well, putting himself in Sherlock's position and assessing the effect.

It was one hell of an effect.

The shoes gave him an extra three inches - four more than his brother. Kissing him from this position would force Sherlock's head back, exposing his neck and heightening his sense of vulnerability. The dark blue corset practically shimmered against his creamy skin and the ginger hair on his chest, and he couldn't resist running his fingers across the smooth expanse of silk. He caught his breath at the tingling sensation left in their wake. He flashed on an image of Sherlock on his knees before him, wrapped in the leather bands of the harness; his cock jerked, and he felt a bead of pre-come form at the tip. _That won't do. It'll ruin the silk. _He carefully placed his hand inside the panties - they only contained him by some miracle of dimensional physics - and wiped the fluid from the dark-red glans. He sucked it from his fingertip, savouring the taste, and readjusted himself so his erection peeked outside the panties. _Once Sherlock is here, he'll be able to take care of that. _

He laid the unbuckled leather harness on the bed. He wanted Sherlock to see it; to know what he had in mind for him. Then he placed a medium-sized anal plug beside it. Sherlock would not dictate the terms of his own pleasure tonight. If his brother behaved - submitted - he'd be amply rewarded. If he didn't, he'd go home with his balls aching.

Mycroft put on the silk dressing gown that matched the corset so well and retrieved his riding crop. He had no intention of using it, at least not in any painful manner, but he wanted to gauge Sherlock's reaction to it. He glanced at his watch: five to seven. He tied the dressing gown loosely and made his way, with remarkable ease and stability, down the two flights of stairs to the sitting room on the ground floor. The silk caressed his skin as he moved and the corset endowed him with an even more regal bearing than usual. He sat carefully in a wing-backed chair, eagerly awaiting his brother's arrival.

_Seven o'clock._

He stood and moved to the window, just beyond the view of any passers-by on the street.

This was better than he'd hoped.

Sherlock was _late._

He licked his lips and curled them into a hungry smile.

At two minutes past seven, a taxi pulled up outside the townhouse, and Sherlock got out. He rang the doorbell with his eyes in a vague squint.

_He doesn't know what to expect. Good._

Mycroft opened the door. His dressing gown made his appearance fairly unremarkable, excepting the heels, and he had no reason to hide from public view. That said, he didn't feel like walking out onto the front doorstep, either. He grasped the riding crop meaningfully.

"Sherlock. You're late. Do come in."

He looked as if he were about to disagree, but he saw the riding crop and abruptly stopped. "What's that for?" he asked, sounding intrigued.

"Strip, and place your clothes in a neat pile by the staircase. If you don't wish to comply, please leave. I shan't hold it against you."

"Tell me one thing."

"Yes?"

"Do you plan on using _that_," he nodded at the riding crop, "on _me_?" Sherlock's tone was neutral, for once; it was a query, not a challenge.

"Only when you beg me to," Mycroft replied.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled into a lust-filled smile, and he started to strip.

Mycroft left his brother to finish undressing and ascended the stairs in a swirl of blue silk, not glancing behind him. Sherlock could follow when he was finished. When he was naked.

"Wait, Mycroft, I'm not done yet."

"You know where to find me," he replied, without breaking his step. His calm voice belied the utter excitement he felt at having his brother submit to him.

He stopped by the kitchen and filled a crystal tumbler with sparkling water, then continued to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and took a sip of the icy water to calm his nerves, then he slipped off the dressing gown and draped it over the back of the chair in the corner. He stood and waited, facing the door, for his brother to enter. Sherlock wasn't the only one with a flair for the dramatic.

Seconds later, Sherlock knocked on the door.

"Come in," Mycroft said, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had even bothered knocking.

His brother entered the bedroom, completely naked, as instructed, and already partially aroused.

Sherlock stood in the doorway and took in Mycroft's appearance, lavishing long hungry stares at the corset, the riding crop, the stockings, the heels, and the obvious erection jutting above the waistband of the panties.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft graced him with a hint of a smile and walked towards him, slowly. The heels made his hips sway slightly and he watched Sherlock's eyes follow the movement of his cock as he approached.

He cleared his throat delicately, and Sherlock looked up.

Mycroft had stopped at arm's length from him and slowly ran the tip of the riding crop along his cheekbone and down onto his chest. He kept going until it rested on the tip of his brother's cock.

"Why did you come?" Mycroft asked. He'd phrased it like that deliberately, of course, and he made a conscious effort to keep the smile off his face.

Sherlock responded without a second of hesitation, "Because you told me to come."

"And what if I told you not to come?"

Sherlock smirked a little and responded, "Then I'd do my best not to."

"Good boy," Mycroft replied, and placed the tip of the riding crop beneath his balls. He drew it up slowly, eliciting a bitten-off moan.

He pointed towards the bed with the crop. "I won't be the only one dressed for the occasion." He watched Sherlock's reaction carefully. His brother's breathing quickened, and his cock got visibly harder.

His brother stared him directly in the eye and defiantly stated, "I'm not wearing that."

_He's deliberately refusing to see how far he can push me. Fine._

"You _shall_ wear it, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes flashed with lust and his voice came out low and ragged. "Make me."

_Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that_, he thought.

In one swift move, he twisted Sherlock's arm behind his back, pulled up hard towards his shoulders, and pushed him face down onto the bed.

Sherlock growled with pleasure as Mycroft held him in place.

"You need to learn some respect, Sherlock." He jammed his elbow firmly between his brother's shoulder-blades to keep him still as he lubed up the plug. Spreading his cheeks with one hand, he placed the tip of the silicone toy at the tight pink rosette of his brother's arse. Sherlock visibly relaxed and prepared to accept it, which was just as well; it was going to be a tight fit. He pushed it in slowly but steadily, pausing only when Sherlock tensed at the intrusion.

"You're going to take everything I give you, Sherlock, unless you want me to send you home." He didn't say Sherlock couldn't fight him on it. He sort of hoped he _would_.

"I'd rather take your cock with no lube than that ridiculous piece of rubber," he retorted.

"And that's _exactly _why you aren't getting my cock until you learn some manners, Sherlock." He pushed the toy in harder, a little more forcefully than necessary, and Sherlock yelped.

Sherlock's breath came in ragged gasps as Mycroft kept pushing. "I wish you could see this, Sherlock, the way it's opening you up so easily. I'll have to buy the larger size and see how wide I can stretch you." It finally breached him completely and snapped into place, and his arse closed tightly around it.

Mycroft pulled him off the bed. "Kneel."

His brother tried to squirm out of his grasp, but his eyes were dilated and his cock was like iron.

Squirming or not, he knelt on the floor at Mycroft's feet and groaned as the toy pressed further inside him.

Mycroft picked up the harness by its leather cock ring.

"I said, I am _not _wearing that."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in a mocking, sympathetic tone. "You never learn, do you?" _Actually, _he thought_, you've already learnt how to play this game, and you're playing it superbly. Even better than I'd hoped._

Sherlock made no effort to move, or indeed to offer any resistance whatsoever. Mycroft pulled down the silk panties and sighed in delight as his cock sprang free. He braced his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and delicately stepped out of them, quietly thankful he didn't snag them on the stiletto heels and pitch forward onto his brother.

Sherlock was too busy hungrily eyeing his brother's cock to notice that Mycroft had wadded the panties into a ball.

It became more obvious when he grabbed Sherlock's hair, pulled his head back, and shoved the ball of silk into his mouth.

"Hey," Sherlock protested in a muffled voice.

"You don't get my cock until I let you. If I let you. And I haven't decided if you deserve it yet. Perhaps seeing you in the harness will change my mind."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shot him what Mycroft supposed he intended as a withering glare.

In return, Mycroft gave him a questioning look with his eyebrows and tried to look bored as he dangled the harness by the cock ring, right in front of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock caved first; he sighed and let his shoulders drop.

Mycroft resisted the temptation to gloat; well, he resisted the temptation to _visibly_ gloat. It was a victory and they both knew it.

He buckled Sherlock's still very-erect penis into the cock ring, and then ran the wide leather strap up to his chest, where it split off in four ways over his shoulders and around his chest. There were another two straps wrapped around his waist. A sightly thinner one ran from the cock ring, beneath his balls, and between the crack of his arse, holding the plug in place - not that it was going anywhere. The pattern repeated on Sherlock's back, and Mycroft buckled the contraption snugly in place. The metal o-rings connecting the straps provided handy attachment points for a leash. Or cuffs. _It's a wonderfully versatile piece of gear_, Mycroft mused, suddenly glad he'd kept it all these years.

He caught Sherlock glancing down, trying to catch a glimpse of the harness against his lithe body_. I wish I'd had the forethought to purchase a leash._ It would have been perfect to snap it to one of the rings and lead him over to the mirror. _Ah well. Next time. _It seemed likely there would be a next time, considering Sherlock hadn't walked out in a huff yet.

"You look simply delicious, Sherlock. Good enough to eat."

That piqued Sherlock's interest, and he cast his gaze upwards to see Mycroft's face. He had to crane his neck.

"I do love the way the silk peeks out of your mouth, just a little. So delicate." He reached out with one finger and teased the slip of fabric at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He stood only inches from him, and his cock jutted out teasingly towards his brother's face - close enough for him to wrap his lips around, had his mouth not been stuffed full of expensive panties.

"I'm not sure I'm quite hungry yet, though. What about you?" he asked with nonchalance. "Hungry?"

"Yeff. Pleaff." The hungry look in Sherlock's eyes certainly seemed to back that up.

"Oh, good boy. So polite," Mycroft praised, and he very slowly pulled the wet silk from between his brother's lips.

Sherlock moved forward to devour Mycroft's cock, but then he thought better of it and held back at the last second. He tipped his head all the way back so he could see Mycroft's eyes, and asked, "May I?"

Mycroft looked down at him, at his dark hair surrounding his pale skin, and at that long expanse of neck that seemed to go on forever. _I want to mark him_, he thought. _Claim him. Leave a trail of bites from his jaw down to his collarbone so that he has to wear that scarf all day long. _He licked his lips at the idea. _Soon._

"Yes," he replied, "please do." He placed one hand behind Sherlock's head and fed him his cock.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up at Mycroft as he took him in his mouth eagerly. Almost desperately.

The tight, wet heat felt marvellous, and Mycroft arched his back, pushing himself more deeply into Sherlock's throat. "God, yes," he moaned, barely audible, but Sherlock seemed to hear (or perhaps feel) the words, and responded by digging his hands into Mycroft's buttocks and drawing him closer. Deeper. So deep that his forehead rested on the blue silk of the corset.

"Good boy," he murmured, and fisted his hair as Sherlock worked his way down his cock once again.

Sherlock seemed to take the praise as dispensation to make less of an effort. _Can't have that. _Mycroft forced himself all the way back in, making Sherlock gag.

"You can do it, Sherlock. Take it." He held him there for a few moments before he pulled his brother's head back off his cock and let him recover.

Sherlock gasped for air and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

"Ready for some more?"

Sherlock nodded, enthusiastically.

"Mm. See if you can do better this time." He shoved back inside and groaned as the head of his cock rammed the back of Sherlock's throat. "Oh yes, there you go. Perfect." No gagging this time, just the entire length of his shaft crammed into his brother's mouth. It felt like heaven. The tension coiled in his gut as the sensation drove him closer to orgasm. He felt one of Sherlock's hands leave his arse, and glanced down.

"No," he commanded. "You're not to touch yourself. Not unless I allow it." It wouldn't do him any good anyway, not with the cock ring in place.

Sherlock's hand moved back to Mycroft's thigh and smoothed over the cream-coloured stockings, back up to his arse.

"What do you think of the outfit, Sherlock? Are you glad you gave it to me? Do you _like _it?" He thrust into Sherlock's mouth particularly hard as he said 'like' and as soon as Sherlock had the chance, he groaned in affirmation. "Mm. I like it too," he replied as he pulled Sherlock off him with one of the black leather shoulder straps of the harness. "I like this on you, as well. It's a good look for you."

Sherlock looked up at him, his mouth empty for the first time in a while, and smiled.

Mycroft waited for a sarcastic remark, but there was only silence. "Oh, so good," he praised, and then he sighed as Sherlock took him back into his mouth, shallower this time, and tongued the head of his cock with the finesse he'd come to expect of his brother.

"Oh, so very good," he repeated. "I'm going to come in your mouth, but you're not allowed to swallow any of it, understood? I want to see it dribble out onto your chin, mixed with your saliva."

Sherlock nodded, as well as he could.

Mycroft let himself go then, mostly allowing Sherlock to work his magic, but occasionally fucking his face, hard. When he felt the tight cord of release rip through him, held Sherlock's head in place to make sure he got every drop of semen. He wanted to see it all over his brother's face, but he wanted it in his mouth first. He rode out the last pulses of his orgasm but left his cock inside Sherlock's mouth. He imagined his brother's mouth filling with saliva, surrounding his cock and mingling with the semen he'd just spent there. "Don't you dare swallow a drop," he warned. He held Sherlock's head until his brother started to look uncomfortable; if he didn't allow him to swallow soon, the urge would become overwhelming. "I'm going to pull out of your mouth. Don't try and hold it in, I want to see it spill over your chin."

As he pulled his sensitive cock out of his brother's mouth, it trailed a mixture of semen and saliva. Sherlock let his jaw drop and left it open, and their co-mingled fluids dripped down his face and onto his chest.

Mycroft reached for a towel and dried himself off so as not to ruin the silk, but his eyes never left Sherlock's. "Mm, you're filthy, Sherlock," he uttered lovingly, just before he pulled Sherlock to his feet with the harness and captured his mouth in a wet, dirty kiss. _And you're utterly perfect_, he thought_. _He groaned as he tasted himself in his brother's mouth, then he moved down to his chin, placing kisses and gentle bites across his jaw, cleaning Sherlock's face with his mouth. "Did you enjoy that?" he murmured, as he kissed and nibbled across Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock responded with a groan more felt than heard.

"I thought you might." He let his hand find Sherlock's aching prick and gave it a few long strokes before he unsnapped the cock ring. He turned his brother around, and pulled him closer - one arm across his chest and the other around his cock.

"Do you like the way the silk feels against your back?" he asked as he started to stroke him again.

Sherlock nodded and cupped his balls; they were tight against his body, and no doubt aching for release.

"Mm. I thought so. It was more of a gift for both of us, it seems" he murmured against his brother's ear, as his hand moved faster along Sherlock's prick.

The sounds of his brother's frantic breathing and moans filled the room. "God, My. Please, please…" he begged, almost incoherently.

"Do you want me to let you come?" he asked.

Sherlock's hair brushed against Mycroft's chest as he nodded in desperation.

"Come for me, Sherlock."

His brother let out a cry and shuddered, hot cream flooding Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft held him close as his brother relaxed back against his chest and tried to catch his breath.

"Fuck, My. That was amazing," he said, his voice still ragged from the orgasm.

He nuzzled Sherlock's messy curls and murmured agreement, and they both stood there for while, just basking in the afterglow.

Mycroft grabbed a fresh towel from the stack on his bureau and carefully cleaned his brother off, starting with his red lips, still swollen from the blowjob. Sherlock stood there as his brother gently towelled the sweat and come from his body.

Mycroft caught him gazing at his outfit and smiled.

"That corset gives you amazing curves," Sherlock said. "The whole outfit… bloody hell. You really pulled that off rather spectacularly."

"Thanks," Mycroft beamed, and added, "Would you mind helping me out of it before we get a shower, love?"

"Mm," he replied.

Sherlock helped him undress, fascinated by the corset's construction and the effect it had on his brother's body. "Oh, look at the lines it leaves, from the stays," he said, as he traced his finger in a curve down Mycroft's abdomen.

Giggling, Mycroft pushed Sherlock's hand flat against his belly. "Don't, that tickles."

Sherlock pried his hand away and did it again, sending Mycroft squirming away.

Mycroft twisted around and pinned him to the bed. "Behave," he said with a grin. "Or I'll make you wear the harness and plug the next time we go to dinner at Mummy's."

"You don't mean that," Sherlock challenged.

"No, I don't, not unless you want to. But if you want to, I'll be more than happy to oblige. You look amazing," he said, with a nod of appreciation towards Sherlock's still leather-clad form. "Now come on, let's get that off you and get a shower. I'd like to curl up in bed with you for a while, if you don't have to be back home soon."

"Mm, I'd like that," Sherlock replied, as Mycroft hauled him to his feet. "I like all of this. Apparently I quite enjoy you telling me what to do, as long as nobody else is around to see it," he grinned. Then he leaned over and kissed his brother - they were almost the same height now - and Mycroft started to undo the buckles on the harness.


	8. Day 13

**A/N:** This is Day 13 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Gags**"

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: Sherlock finds fault with the furnishings in Mycroft's office.

* * *

"Your office is ridiculous, Mycroft," Sherlock mused as he tipped the antique chair onto its back legs so he could put his feet on Mycroft's desk.

"Take your feet off the desk," Mycroft replied without looking up from his paperwork. "You'll ruin that chair."

"You sound like Mummy."

_That_ earned him a glance and a scowl. Sherlock grinned.

"Can't we just leave?"

"I have to get this finished. I'm sure you can entertain yourself for ten minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, but shut up. After a few minutes, he started in again.

"Honestly though, the furnishings here are quite literally from the nineteenth century."

"Which is why I asked you not to rock on that chair," Mycroft replied sarcastically. "It's not as if I have any control over the interior decorating. Your Le Corbusier would look a little out of place here, although forcing a diplomat to sit in one would give me a definite negotiating advantage."

"Mm," Sherlock mused, "Being unable to see above the desk _would_ be a bit demeaning."

"Precisely. To say nothing of the enforced relaxed posture. Look, I really need to get this done; ten minutes of silence isn't much to ask."

"Oh come on, Mycroft, you can concentrate on more than one thing at a time," he prattled on, distractedly. "You should at least get those curtains changed out for something you can see through. What's the point of having a view if you keep them shut all the time?"

Mycroft got up from his chair. Suddenly he, and not the curtains, had Sherlock's complete attention.

"What?" Sherlock asked, defensively.

"I asked you to be quiet, just for ten minutes, Sherlock. Since you're clearly unable to comply, and obviously fascinated by my decor, I'm going to assist you." He locked the door to the outside office. Unnecessary, probably, since Anthea had already left, but always a good precaution. He walked over to the window and removed the two long curtain tiebacks, hanging unused at either side.

Sherlock looked at him and stifled a huff of amusement. "Surely you don't intend to…"

"Have you ever known me to bluff?" Mycroft replied, bearing down on him in the chair. "As you pointed out, I'm not using these for the curtains; I might as well get some service out of them."

Sherlock made no effort to get away as Mycroft forced the curtain tieback between his lips. Somehow he even managed to look smug as Mycroft pulled it tight and fastened it low around his head. When he tied Sherlock's wrists together with the other strip of fabric, he didn't even have the decency to look interested. It wasn't until Mycroft forced Sherlock's wrists up his back and looped the free end through the back of the gag that Sherlock's brows shot up.

Mycroft stepped back and surveyed his work. Sherlock's head was drawn all the way back, held there by the pressure of his wrist position. His brother had already started to salivate around the gag. Perhaps he _would_ have to replace the curtains; the tiebacks would certainly be unusable after this.

"You alright?" he asked his brother.

Sherlock nodded, as best as he could.

"Good." He reached between Sherlock's legs and felt the beginnings of an erection; Mycroft gave him a quick squeeze through his trousers. "Ten more minutes, then we can go back to mine and I'll give you my undivided attention."


	9. Day 11

**A/N:** This is Day 11 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Explaining their relationship to a disapproving third party**"

**Warnings**: sibling incest (implied)

**Summary**: Molly begins to wonder exactly what she's 'covering up' for Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock breezed into the morgue with an air of transparent cheeriness. He always did when he wanted something.

"Molly…"

He dragged her name out far too long; almost a question, but not quite.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Is there any chance I could be 'working' here with you tonight? Say, from seven until midnight? Something vital. Preferably something that would decompose if I didn't get to it this evening?"

She sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd pulled this. She didn't know who the lucky person was, but it wasn't _her_, and he clearly didn't want John knowing about them.

"I find myself with two tickets to the symphony, if you'd like to go."

The bribes had increased, then. Last time it was a coffee, which, she noted with irritation, he'd reneged on. _Two tickets. And who the hell am I going to take to the symphony? Utterly clueless and unintentionally insulting. That's Sherlock. Well, two can play at this game._

"Oh, that'd be fantastic Sherlock, thank you! When is it? I'd love to go with you; you have such an appreciation for music, and I don't get out much."

Panic flitted across his perfect, unobtainable features.

_Hah._

"I, um, well… I'd meant…"

She wasn't a malicious person, but she did enjoy this, in a way - watching him struggle like a fish on a line.

"I, er, I have another engagement that evening. I thought you might be interested in taking someone else."

"Oh, thanks Sherlock, but I'm honestly not sure who I'd take. You should give them to someone who can use both of them," she smiled, innocently. _Time to reel him in. _She at least wanted to make him work for this. _It's not right, for him to keep taking advantage and expect me to worship him and go along with it. _"Did I tell you? John phoned the other night, looking for you. He said he couldn't reach you on your mobile. I told him you'd gone to the loo. You really should give me more to work with, you know."

This time, the panic did more than flit. It positively settled.

"Ah," Sherlock replied, biting his lower lip.

"Ah," he repeated, and she watched with a benign look, trying not to smile.

"Well, perhaps I could move a few things around; I might be able to go to the symphony after all." His smile was a little pained.

"Really? Oh, I'd love that, Sherlock, thank you!" _Best bribe ever. _She harboured no illusions - it _was_ a bribe, not a date - but the victory was almost as sweet. "I know I have some decomposing tissue samples around here somewhere," she added with a coy smile.

* * *

_Molly blackmailed me into a date. -SH_

Mycroft huffed his amusement as he glanced at the text.

_You're bribing her to cover for you. I don't see as there's much difference. -MH_

He could almost see Sherlock fuming as he read the text.

Mycroft had expected this for a while. Sherlock had always underestimated Molly; he assumed that her infatuation with him would translate to endless, unquestioning loyalty. Mycroft had warned him against it, but his brother had always waved the threat away.

_And where, may I ask, shall this date take place? -MH_

_I have to take her to the symphony. -SH_

_Well, it could be worse. I suggest you make the best of it if you want her continued support. -MH_

The lack of reply testified to Sherlock's irritation. Sherlock's emotional transparency called for more drastic measures. _Ms Hooper is a force to be reckoned with, and at least one of us should respect that_, he thought.

* * *

Molly gripped the cardboard cup of tea, trying to warm up her fingers. It was always so cold in the morgue, and this autopsy was particularly mundane. She leaned against the counter for a quick break.

Not for the first time, she wondered what was going on with Sherlock. Her curiosity gnawed at her. _Surely I can figure it out. _

_What do I know to be true?_

_Sherlock doesn't want John to find out what he's doing. So… drugs or dating. _

She suspected drugs would take more of a toll on his appearance, and he never appeared to be high.

_Dating, then. _She gave a quick huff. _Whoever it is must be resilient as hell. _

_But why would John care? Jealousy is unlikely; he dates women. _John seemed to have no interest in Sherlock beyond their relationship as flatmates and as a provider of constant adrenaline.

_There must be another reason Sherlock doesn't want John to know. Oh… Sherlock doesn't get out much: John must know the person in question. _She pursed her lips in a smirk. _They must work _here.

She took another sip of her tea. _Well, that narrows it down a bit._

_Donovan? _They certainly both make a show of detesting each other. _An over-compensation to hide their relationship?_ Sherlock didn't seem like the type to ham it up _that_ much, and Sally seemed genuinely disgusted by his presence. No, that wasn't likely.

_What about that Irene woman who disappeared without a trace? _She supposed it was possible, but that had come off more like a professional rivalry than a romance, and John had said something about a witness protection program. No one had seen or heard from her in months.

In general, Sherlock didn't seem very interested in women at all, now that she thought about it. He barely registered her physical appearance, or those of John's dates. But he'd taken in Jim's appearance (and made the seemingly correct deduction that he was gay), in a matter of seconds. _No, it makes more sense_, she mused._ I don't know any straight man who'd wear that purple shirt - at least not three sizes too small. _

_What about Dimmock then? _she thought._ No, I'm pretty sure he's straight. But even if he isn't, he'd never be able to tolerate Sherlock. _He was certainly far more appreciative when she wore lipstick, and he'd gone out of his way to chat with her on a couple of occasions. She secretly hoped there might be _something _there.

_Lestrade? _

_That's doubtful; Sherlock singlehandedly instigated his divorce._ He could give as good as he got, but it seemed unlikely that he'd want to take anything from Sherlock.

She took another drink.

_Anderson? _

She doubled over, laughing so hard that she sent a fine spray of tea all over the open chest of the unfortunate corpse.

_No. Definitely not Anderson. In no world could that _ever_ be possible. _

She sighed at her lack of professionalism, glad that the evidence had already been procured, and picked up a sponge to dab the tea from the bluish skin of the corpse. _Not that Mr Open Chest cares either way, I'm sure; it might have warmed him up a bit._

She expected Sherlock to want somebody that was more… _his intellectual equal? _

There weren't many people like that around here, as Sherlock reminded them all on an almost daily basis.

_Jim? _She winced at the idea; Jim was not a pleasant memory at the best of times. _He may be intelligent but he's also a psychotic killer, as well as a cruel bastard. Worst boyfriend ever. _She felt lucky to have gotten out of that relationship with her life_. _Even Sherlock, sociopath or not, seemed unlikely to date a vicious murderer.

With the viciousness and determination only someone with a bone saw could wield, she set about dismantling Mr Open Chest's ribcage.

The evening passed uneventfully, and she didn't have to use her prefabricated excuses on John. She felt a little guilty about lying to him, but her jealousy smoothed it over without too much effort. It wasn't fair; he got to _live _with Sherlock. Even if they _weren't_ anything more than flatmates, she could only imagine what it would be like to live around Sherlock's constant glow of energy. The more logical side of her brain informed her that it would be exactly like living with a five year old narcissist, but she still couldn't bring herself to end her arrangement with Sherlock. _I'll take the attention any way I can get it, thank you very much. _A quieter, more self-loathing part of her, thought, _I don't care what it says about me._

* * *

Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text.

_I've purchased some new lab equipment for Ms Hooper; I suggest you play along if she brings it up. You might suggest your preference for working in the morgue; the lab does get so busy. -MH_

_What do you mean, 'play along'? What sort of equipment? -SH_

_A scanning electron microscope. It should arrive later today. -MH_

_What? I can't afford one of those! She'll know I didn't buy it. -SH_

_That's what I'm hoping. Stop by my office. We need to talk. -MH_

Sherlock barged into Mycroft's office in a full-on strop.

"Are you _trying _to get us discovered, Mycroft? The symphony tickets were a little transparent, I'll admit, but a _scanning electron microscope? _That's a new definition of 'obvious bribe' if I've ever heard one."

"It's not for her, remember? It's for you. Which at least puts it within the bounds of legality, especially since it came out of my private funds."

"That's not the point," Sherlock fumed, as he paced the room like caged animal. "She's going to start asking questions. Trying to figure out where I go. Nnghhh." This last sound of frustration was accompanied with open clenched palms, grasping at the air as if he could throttle the life out of it.

Mycroft sat at his desk, unruffled. When Sherlock started to calm down, he spoke. "Are you quite finished?"

Sherlock glared at him.

"Has it not occurred to you that Ms Hooper is probably _already _asking questions? Your occasional 'favour' has turned into outright bribery, and bribery on a regular basis, at that. Did you honestly think she wouldn't wonder what you're hiding?"

"So why did you send the microscope?"

"I wanted an excuse to introduce myself. She seems like a rather exceptional young woman. Ms Hooper still tolerates your presence - even appears to enjoy it - despite your abhorrent behaviour towards her at that Christmas party."

Sherlock looked up in surprise.

"Yes, I heard about that. It was difficult _not_ to, believe me," Mycroft muttered. "She lies for you, without question. Why, I wonder? It seems that she's beyond her unrequited infatuation; if my sources are correct, she's hoping for a date with Detective Inspector Dimmock."

Sherlock scowled.

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Sherlock. You're not even interested in her."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away.

"Clearly, she's willing to assist with your deception, apparently out of some sense of loyalty, or possibly just for your continued attention. But those things can only be pushed so far without questions being raised. If she starts raising those questions with the wrong people, your life is going to become a lot more complicated."

"And what exactly do you hope to accomplish with this introduction? 'Hello, I'm Sherlock's brother. We're sleeping together and I want to pay you off so you don't tell anyone?'," he mimicked.

"Well, you got it half right."

"What?" Sherlock practically exploded, arms gesticulating wildly. "Are you absolutely insane?" he demanded. "You're actually suggesting we _tell her?_"

"Sit down and listen to what I'm saying, Sherlock."

Sherlock stormed over to the window, yanked the curtains back with so much force they were almost ripped from their rails, and fumed.

Mycroft sighed. This was going about as well as he'd expected, really.

* * *

That afternoon, as Molly restocked the lab supplies, two delivery men showed up with a massive crate on a pallet truck.

"You need to sign for this. Where do you want it set up?"

"What is it? I didn't order anything."

"Um," the man ran his eyes down the printed sheet on the clipboard. "Says here: scanning electron microscope. This is the morgue right?" He glanced over at the body on the table and laughed. "I hope it's the morgue."

This made no sense; she'd always had to go upstairs and use the one in the labs. Not that it wouldn't be lovely to have one down here, but how had they worked this out on the budget? They'd just sacked someone last week.

She frowned as she looked around the room and wondered where she could put it. She had no intention of looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth; she'd find out who'd sent it later. "Let's put it over there," she said, hastily signing the clipboard. She wondered how long it would be before they came to take it back; somebody must have made a huge mistake.

She wandered upstairs with two cups of coffee the next morning. It was always nice to have an excuse to visit Greg, and perhaps he'd know something about it.

"Morning Greg. Brought you some coffee."

"Oo, ta. What's the occasion?"

"Nothing really. Just thought I'd leave the basement for a bit and interact with the rest of the world."

Greg flashed her a charming grin. His mood was so much better when Sherlock wasn't around; he really didn't seem like a probable candidate for Sherlock's mystery lover, unless he really enjoyed misery.

"Anything new and exciting going on in the morgue? Well, new. Hopefully nothing too exciting."

"Well, it's funny you should mention that, actually," she replied. "Have there been any changes to the budget that I didn't hear about?"

Greg wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Nothing good, why?"

"Well," she started, and suddenly wasn't sure if she should mention it. "Don't worry, it's nothing."

"Aw, come on, what is it?" he teased. "Out with it."

"Well, I had some new equipment show up yesterday. Something I needed, but I never would have ordered it. They wouldn't have approved something like that."

"Huh," Greg agreed. "That is odd. I didn't hear anything about it up here; it's all we can do to get new pencils."

That's exactly what she'd been afraid of.

Back downstairs, she stared at the huge machine, sitting in the corner. She should really set it up, but its mysterious origin scratched at the back of her mind.

_This is a lot bigger than symphony tickets._

Sherlock didn't have access to this sort of funding… but there _was_ his brother, always showing up in chauffeured limousines. Perhaps _he_ did. She phoned Greg.

"Hi Molly, what's up?"

"Sherlock's brother…" she questioned.

"Yeah, Mycroft. What about him?"

"What does he do?"

"Not sure, really. Something for the government, I think; it seems very hush-hush. He comes around here talking to Sherlock every now and then, but I've only met him a few times. Why?"

"I'm still trying to figure out who paid for this thing."

"Why on earth would Sherlock's brother buy you a microscope?"

"Yeah, you're right; it makes no sense. I'm sure it's some sort of clerical error. Thanks."

"Um, okay. Bye." Greg replied, sounding confused.

She started unpacking the machine from its pallet.

_Perhaps he got it for Sherlock, _she thought. _He's always whinging about having to share the one in the lab. No one else spends any time down here._

She sent Sherlock a text.

_Do you know anything about this scanning electron microscope? -Molly_

_Ah yes, I meant to mention that to you. My brother procured it for me. Did it get there in one piece? -SH_

It was as if the rules didn't even apply to them. Apparently, the higher you were in the government, the less they scrutinised your expenditures.

_Yes. I should have it set up by this afternoon. -Molly_

_Great. Are you doing anything for lunch? Mycroft would like to meet you, and he's buying. -SH_

She dropped the phone onto the table as if she'd been burned.

Mycroft had kidnapped John; she'd heard about it. True, he'd been returned unharmed, but between that and the microscope, the last thing she wanted to do was get in a car with him, even if Sherlock was there.

The phone vibrated noisily against the cold steel as another text lit up the screen.

_Molly? -SH_

She took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

_I already have lunch plans. -Molly_

Technically, it was true. They involved her and a sandwich, here in the morgue.

_Alright, I'll be by later then. -SH_

* * *

"Your reputation precedes you, Mycroft; she never has lunch plans. I find it much more likely that she refuses to get in a car with you."

"As I said before, she's a very smart woman. I'd never harm her, of course, but she has a keen sense of self-preservation. I like that."

"Then I trust you'll be visiting the morgue this afternoon for our little chat?"

"Indeed."

"Very well. See you then." Sherlock got up and left the office, all traces of his previous strop gone.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and sighed; overall, it had gone much better than he'd expected. He hadn't come to the decision lightly, of course; it wasn't information one generally wanted exposed. He'd considered going directly to John with it, but Sherlock had already bribed Molly one too many times for that - she was already curious. With her on board, the need to inform John could wait. Besides, John would likely be horrified; Molly's willingness to be bribed spoke of a more flexible moral code. Especially where Sherlock was concerned.

* * *

Sherlock arrived just after lunchtime; he didn't want to embarrass Molly regarding her 'lunch plans'. He considered being polite and friendly, but thought better of it; he didn't want to seem too out of character.

"So, um, your brother was able to get this for you? It's very nice."

"It's a personal expense, not a government one," he reassured her.

"Oh. I didn't know you were so…" she trailed off.

"Rich? I'm not; he is. Eldest son and all that."

"Oh," she replied, looking vaguely sheepish. "Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

He stopped fiddling with the images on the monitors long enough to turn around and talk to her. "It's fine, really," he said, smiling and trying to sound like he was genuinely interested in the conversation. He wasn't sure why people bothered - conversations were hard work. Mycroft had warned him not to ruin things before he arrived, and he didn't want to insult her - inadvertently or otherwise.

"So," he started awkwardly, "any interesting new body parts? The finger decomposition test I'm running at home is going along nicely, although John has banned me from all but the bottom drawer of the fridge.

She grinned and replied, "You need a second fridge."

"Mm, indeed. Mycroft is going to stop by this afternoon. Is that alright?"

She shifted nervously and frowned. "Um, yes. I suppose so. I'm not sure why he wants to meet me, though. Frankly, from everything I've heard, he seems a little, um…"

"What?" Sherlock pressed, curious to hear her description.

"…terrifying."

Sherlock's face lit up and he laughed. "Yes, well…"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He has an image to maintain. Professionally. Don't worry," he added, conspiratorially, "I won't let him hurt you."

She looked a little insulted, and Sherlock wondered if he'd overstepped some sort of social boundary again. He quickly tried to smooth things over. "Really, he's fine. And I'm sure you can, um, take care of yourself."

When her face relaxed, he did as well, fairly sure that his ham-fisted almost-apology had worked. His phone buzzed.

_I'm upstairs. I know precisely where the morgue is, but she might not be comfortable knowing that. Perhaps you'd care to meet me up here? -MH_

"Ah, Mycroft's here. I'll just go and get him. Back in a few."

"Sherlock?" she called out, as he was leaving.

He turned around. "Mm?"

"Why _is _he here?"

He'd expected this and had even asked Mycroft how he should respond. 'Tell her,' he'd said. 'Let her think about it.'

"There's a personal matter we'd like to discuss with you," he replied. Then he smiled and breezed out of the room.

* * *

_Personal matter?_

_What the hell? _

Perhaps it was drugs, after all. Perhaps Mycroft was covering for Sherlock too, and they needed her cooperation.

But it didn't _feel _like drugs.

Perhaps it was something to do with Jim; maybe Mycroft needed more information about him in order to track him down. It certainly didn't seem like _she'd _be of much use though.

_And Sherlock had said 'we'. _

Was Mycroft involved in covering up Sherlock's secret relationship as well? At this point, it seemed like it had to be a relationship. Nothing else made sense, unless he'd been taken on by MI5 or something.

She shook her head and started fiddling nervously with stacks of agar plates. She had absolutely no idea what to make of it.

* * *

"Do you think she suspects anything?" Mycroft asked as they strode down the hallway.

"No, I don't think she has a clue."

"Well, this should be interesting them," he replied with a tight grin as he pushed open the door to the morgue.

"Ms Hooper," he said cheerfully, extending his hand in greeting, "it's lovely to meet you at last."

Molly looked nervous, but returned the handshake firmly and smiled.

Mycroft glanced around and took in the seating possibilities - mostly a few high lab stools and a couple of fibreglass desk chairs. _I really should see about improving that. _"Is there somewhere we could sit down, perhaps?"

"Um…" she replied, hurrying around to corral the few low chairs into one area.

Sherlock hopped gracefully onto one of the counter-tops and sat there with his palms braced against the edge. "I'm fine here," he said.

Molly pushed two of the other chairs over and muttered apologetically, "Sorry we don't have anything better."

Mycroft smiled and hoped it didn't look threatening. Most of the time, he wanted his smiles to come off as threatening, and it had developed into a nasty little habit. "It's fine, I assure you." He smoothed his suit coat beneath him as he sat.

"So, Ms Hooper…"

"Molly." She'd plopped into the other chair and unconsciously fiddled with the lapel of her lab coat.

"Molly. We have a rather delicate matter to discuss with you. Sherlock has informed me that he's taken you into his confidence regarding his absences from his flat. Clearly, asking you to participate in this is a little unfair, especially since you don't know the circumstances surrounding the situation."

"Do I want to know?" she asked, almost joking, but not quite.

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "That's a fine question," he replied. "_Do _you want to know?"

"Yes, I do," she replied, soberly. "I don't like to lie without a very good reason." She looked meaningfully at Sherlock. "No matter who it's for."

"Very well," he replied, and folded his hands in his lap. "I'm sure by now you've suspected that Sherlock is involved in a romantic relationship."

She nodded.

"The details regarding the relationship, should they come to light, could be damaging for all parties involved."

Molly blushed. "Oh," she said, surprised. "Is it… a dominatrix, or er, a domin…" She struggled for a male version of the word.

"No, no," Mycroft cut her off, "it's nothing like that." _It's not as if Sherlock _pays_ me for the privilege of kneeling at my feet._He had to suppress a smile at the image. He nodded slightly at Sherlock, indicating he should deliver the next part of their little speech.

"Molly," Sherlock started, "I want you to know that your attentions, while very flattering, are not exactly my… thing. I'm gay."

"I rather gathered that," she replied, bluntly.

"I'm sorry to have been so rude about it in the past. I should have simply said something."

Mycroft nodded. _Good. Sherlock had even managed the apology without coming off like an arse._

"So… that's all? You don't want John to know you're in a gay relationship?" she said with a perplexed expression. "I mean, I know he's straight, but it doesn't seem like he'd particularly mind."

"Ah. You see, that's not exactly_ all_ there is to it," Sherlock continued.

He paused and took a deep breath before he spoke.

"You see, I'm in a relationship with Mycroft."

The silence was positively deafening.

Her mouth fell open, just a little, as she shifted her gaze between them. Then she pursed her lips and squinted, deep in thought.

Seventeen seconds later, she spoke, but they weren't the words Mycroft expected to hear.

"This isn't some sort of elaborate joke at my expense, is it?"

Mycroft sat back in surprise. _Good Lord, if she thinks Sherlock would do that, I'm amazed she even speaks to him. _"It most assuredly is not," he replied.

Sherlock sat stock-still on the counter and kept blessedly quiet.

Until he didn't.

"The taboo concerning incest is mainly due to issues of consent and the propagation of genetic abnormalities, neither of which…" Sherlock started.

_Oh dear Lord. _"Sherlock, please!" Mycroft cut in.

Molly sucked her lips between her teeth and squinted as she continued to shift her gaze between them.

Eventually, she spoke again. "I can see why you don't want this getting out."

Mycroft looked at her expression to determine whether her statement was a threat, or merely a statement of fact. It appeared to be the latter. He gave her a faint smile. "Indeed."

"Not that this is really my business," she continued, "but how long has this been going on? I mean," she stammered, "was he…?" Molly looked over at Sherlock.

"It's been going on since I was in my mid-twenties," Sherlock reassured her. "I was fully consenting in the arrangement. In fact, I instigated it."

She laughed a little. "That doesn't really surprise me; you've always been pushy. I can see why you've been hiding this from John, though. It would be more than a little awkward, I'm sure."

"Not to mention the fact that it's illegal," Mycroft added.

She turned to him, shocked. "Really? Even if it's between consenting adults?"

"Yes. The English legal system is surprisingly archaic when it comes to matters concerning sex."

"Oh… oh," she sighed. "That's awful. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft gave a slight shrug. "You get used to the secrecy; we've been together for about ten years now. Dr Watson's involvement has made things a lot more complicated for both of us, of course."

"Gosh, yes. I can see why." She looked at both of them again. "I have to admit, I wasn't expecting this, but it really doesn't bother me, either. I completely understand why you need to keep it a secret, and I'll do whatever I can to help." The words tumbled out in a rush.

"So you're honestly not disturbed by this, Molly?" Sherlock enquired, genuinely surprised.

"Well, no. It's not very conventional, but then, neither are you."

Mycroft chuckled.

She looked at them again, almost as if she was sizing them up. "I have one request though. Not blackmail, mind you, just a request." Then she looked away and blushed fiercely.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, questioningly. "Yes?"

"I'd like to watch."

* * *

**A/N**: To be continued in the next installment: **Day 30 (voyeurism)**


	10. Day 30

**A/N:** This is Day 30 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Voyeurism**". It's a direct continuation of Day 11.

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Beta**: Deklava

**Summary**: Molly has always wanted to see Sherlock naked. She gets her wish.

* * *

From Day 11:

_"I have one request though. Not blackmail, mind you, just a request." She looked away and blushed fiercely. _

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows, questioningly. "Yes?"_

_"I'd like to watch."_

* * *

Mycroft actually lost his composure. He erupted in a series of short, wheezy laughs, almost unable to catch a whole breath. "You… what?"

It seemed Sherlock, on the other hand, had finally found something to shut him up. He just gaped.

"Well, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask," she replied, sounding disappointed.

"You're serious?" Sherlock had finally found his voice - his utterly incredulous voice.

"If you had a chance to watch something like that, wouldn't _you_ ask?"

"I… um, I'm not sure. Possibly," Sherlock stammered. "But I'm…"

"What?" she replied, newly emboldened and teasing him now. "Male? Rude? Horribly unaware of social conventions?"

"I was going to say 'a bit of a pervert', but those would cover it as well, I think."

"Yes, well, perhaps you've never considered that I could be 'a bit of a pervert' too." She shrugged and added, "It's always the quiet ones."

Mycroft just stood by in a full-on smirk. "Actually," he said, "I can't say I'm horribly opposed to the idea, as long as it's a one-time thing. Sherlock?"

"Wait, what?" Sherlock said as he spun around to face Mycroft.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. This barely scratches the surface of 'strange' for you. But it is, of course, _entirely_ your decision."

It was almost as good as a dare.

"Of course I'll do it," he retorted, and flashed Mycroft a competitive grin.

"Very well. I suggest we all sleep on the idea. Ms Hooper, are you available tomorrow evening?"

She nodded, her eyes wide.

"Good, then I propose we meet for dinner at my townhouse, negotiate the ground rules, and then spend an entertaining evening in each other's company."

"Alright," Sherlock replied.

Molly just gave them another dazed nod.

"Very well. I must be off. I have to say, Ms Hooper, it's been a pleasure to meet you. You're not at all what I expected," he added, with a genuine smile.

"I'll come with you, Mycroft; I need to be getting back to the flat. John will be home from the surgery soon."

They left, and Molly sat there with a dazed look on her face, giggling intermittently. _What the hell have I got myself into? _

* * *

"Do you want a ride back to the flat, Sherlock? We should talk about this."

"What's to talk about? We agreed to do it."

"I want to make sure you're actually comfortable with it. We can always call it off." He stopped in the middle of the hallway and turned to face Sherlock, his face a study in bewilderment. "I can honestly say I've never been in a negotiation with such an _unexpected_ outcome."

"I certainly didn't see it coming," Sherlock muttered. Then he giggled. "Talk about fearless."

Mycroft huffed his agreement.

As they took the car to Baker Street, they worked out the logistics; the ground rules had to be in place before Molly got involved.

Sherlock would bottom. Mycroft would top. There would be no hint of dominance or submission. No bondage; no pain; no corsets; no lingerie; no toys; no riding crops. Nothing even remotely kinky. It was going to be bizarre enough, just on its own. And it would take place in the guest bedroom. His bedroom was _theirs_, and he didn't want any odd associations with the event lingering there afterwards.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?"

He nodded, thoughtfully. "I don't particularly care if it's Molly or someone else, but I do find the idea of being watched rather erotic."

"You've always enjoyed being the centre of attention," Mycroft replied, and gave his brother's thigh an affectionate squeeze as they sat beside each other in the car.

* * *

They met at the townhouse the next evening. Molly sat on the sofa, looking slightly nervous as they laid out their ground rules.

"You can watch, but you can't touch," Sherlock said.

"Um…" she cut in.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Can I, er… well, would it be alright if I… made requests? Possibly?"

Mycroft covered his mouth with his hand in a mild attempt to conceal his mirth. "You're asking if you can _direct?_" he said.

"Um, yes, I suppose so," she said meekly.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged his approval.

"You're never this pushy at work," Sherlock said, a bit surprised about this turn of events.

"You have to pick your battles," she replied, pragmatically.

"Right."

"Molly, do you have any rules you'd like to go by?"

She shook her head and asked, "Have you ever had an audience before?"

"Not an intentional one," Sherlock muttered.

"What Sherlock means is 'no'," Mycroft cut in, quickly. The incident with John really couldn't be called voyeurism, after all.

"Would anyone like something to drink?" It seemed only polite to ask. Mycroft didn't know how Molly or Sherlock were doing, but he was actually a little nervous - and he was supposed to be good with people. _Although I don't suppose that generally includes having it off with your brother in front of a near stranger_, he thought.

They both nodded.

"Red wine?" Molly asked.

Sherlock joined Mycroft in having a small glass of scotch.

"So, Molly," Sherlock asked conversationally, "do you consider voyeurism to be an established kink for you, or is this more of an opportunistic thing?"

She turned bright red, and Mycroft rounded on him. "Sherlock, please!"

"I wasn't trying to be rude, I was just curious."

"Do you consider exhibitionism to be one of your kinks?" she asked, clearly fighting for her own ground.

"I'll tell you after this evening, although I doubt I'll be making a habit of it, regardless."

"Perhaps we could discuss something less… controversial," Mycroft suggested. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to start bickering. "How did you get interested in medicine, Molly?"

"Well, at one point I considered being a doctor, but I eventually decided I preferred my patients to be more, well… dead. It's still really interesting, and I never get stuck having to see fifteen people with the flu."

_Oh my. Well, at least she's honest._

"Are either of you nervous?" Molly asked. "Because I'm a bit nervous. I thought the wine would help, but perhaps it hasn't kicked in yet."

Sherlock shrugged, which seemed as good as a resounding 'yes'.

"A little," Mycroft replied. There seemed no point in denying it. "If you change your mind, we'll understand."

"Oh, no," she said, quickly, "I'm fine," and then she downed half the glass of wine in one swig.

_Alright then, _Mycroft thought with amusement, _she's certainly committed to this._ "Sherlock?"

He nodded. "Always open to new experiences, for science if nothing else."

Molly giggled and drained the rest of her glass. "My God, I never would have guessed about the two of you," she said, apparently starting to relax a bit. "Doesn't Sherlock drive you nuts?"

Mycroft gave her a wry smile. "Everyone has their moments. We don't argue as much as you might imagine; we save that for the public eye. Some of it is for show, but part of it is very real frustration," he said, and looked fondly at Sherlock.

"You're no walk in the park, Mycroft," Sherlock countered with a smile.

"What do you do, Mycroft? No one at the Met actually seems to know."

"It's mostly diplomatic work."

Sherlock chuckled and looked away innocently.

"You're not going to tell me, then?"

"Do you honestly think I could?" Mycroft replied.

"No, I suppose not. Do you have a lot of sex?"

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft asked, wide-eyed.

"Sex. Do you have a lot of it?"

The abrupt, somewhat startling topic change had caught him off guard. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I just wondered if this is more of a platonic thing or if you, well, you know, have a lot of sex."

He glanced in Sherlock's direction, who once again gave him a faint, approving shrug. "Yes, we do. I believe without the sexual component, our relationship would be generally perceived as normal."

"Oh. Of course. I suppose so."

"Does one of you… um… do you always…?"

Mycroft let her grasp for the phrase. Although he wasn't worried that she'd share it, exposing this much information about his personal life made him a little uncomfortable.

Sherlock spoke up. "'Bottom?' I believe that's the word you're groping for. And no, our roles are much more fluid than those of many heterosexual relationships."

Apparently his brother had no such boundaries when it came to sharing.

"Now, if 'Gay Sex 101' is over," Sherlock continued, "I suggest we proceed to the bedroom."

Mycroft observed Molly for signs of discomfort at Sherlock's brusque suggestion. She merely smiled expectantly; apparently the wine had done its job rather well. He had to admit the scotch had taken the edge off a bit. Although Sherlock might be a bit of an exhibitionist, he didn't really share those tendencies. Still, it would most likely be fine once they got started. Sherlock certainly seemed ready.

His brother stood and looked at Molly questioningly. She got to her feet. _Well, I suppose this is it, then, _Mycroft thought.

Sherlock led the way to their agreed-upon location of the guest bedroom. It was as impeccably decorated as the rest of the townhouse, but it lacked the personal touches of his own bedroom - the picture of Sherlock on his bedside table and the lingering scent of his cologne in the en-suite. The upholstered chair in the corner had an unobstructed view of bed - and the rest of the room; what he had in mind didn't really involve the bed. He supposed that could change, depending on Molly's penchant for 'directing'.

He waved her towards the chair and was about to mutter something awkward about how they should proceed when Sherlock approached him. He unbuttoned Mycroft's suit coat and leaned in close.

"Relax, My," he murmured, quiet enough that Molly wouldn't hear. "You should at least try and enjoy this." He followed with a gentle, slow kiss to Mycroft's neck before he slipped the coat from his shoulders. "We can always stop if you don't. It's not as if we _have _to do this."

Mycroft exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. _He's right, of course. On both counts. _When he opened his eyes, a second later, his brother stared at him with calm fascination as his fingers slowly worked the buttons of his waistcoat. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, and the touch of his lips was almost enough to make him forget that Molly was sitting in the chair, her eyes wide. Almost.

* * *

What struck Molly the most was the absolute _tenderness _with which Sherlock treated Mycroft. She'd never seen him treat _anyone_ else like that - not even John, whose company he actually enjoyed. And yet there it was - undeniable proof of what she'd suspected all along - Sherlock was not the sociopath he claimed to be, and his feelings ran as deep as anyone else's.

Mycroft's back was partially turned towards her - perhaps deliberately. He seemed far more nervous about the entire affair than Sherlock, who didn't seem bothered by it at all. She watched as he undid his brother's waistcoat and removed it as gently as he had the coat. Then he placed his hand at the small of Mycroft's back, pale skin on crisp white cotton, and pulled Mycroft in, kissing him again. This time, Mycroft responded in kind, with a gentle kiss of his own.

It wasn't what she'd expected.

She'd expected real-life pornography, impersonal and rough like the video clips she'd furtively viewed online the previous evening. She'd thought she'd have to 'direct' them to do anything romantic and tender like this.

She suddenly felt horrible for making the assumption that it was _only _about sex; just because she'd never had anyone treat her with care and respect didn't mean all relationships were that way. She just never imagined that _Sherlock_ was capable of being in one. She didn't want to direct at all; she just wanted to watch, because even without sex, it was utterly beautiful seeing him relate emotionally to anyone.

And then Sherlock started to remove his own shirt, and she swallowed. She very much wanted the sex to happen. Who was she kidding?

* * *

Mycroft silently thanked the patron saint of bespoke tailoring. The three-piece suit took time and effort to remove, and he needed time at the moment.

They were both naked to the waist now, and one of Sherlock's hands braced his lower back as he nipped and sucked his way between Mycroft's shoulder and his neck. His brother's other hand rubbed not-so-subtly on the front of his trousers. He closed his eyes and let his head tip back as he drank in the sensations; the warm feeling in his groin and the not-enough pressure of Sherlock's teeth left him wanting more, and soon he found himself reciprocating. He pulled Sherlock's head up and kissed him, not so gently this time. His other hand found Sherlock's arse and drew him closer, grinding his brother's erection against him.

By the time Sherlock started unzipping his suit trousers, his body had overcome the reservations of his mind and seemed to be happy to go along for the ride.

* * *

Molly couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as Sherlock worked his way up Mycroft's throat, eliciting quiet groans from the older man. Intellectually, she knew Sherlock would never be interested in her, but it didn't stop her from wanting to be in Mycroft's place. She banished the thought and focused on Sherlock instead.

_Good Lord._

He'd never been particularly shy, wearing those tight shirts of his, but she'd always imagined he'd be painfully skinny beneath them. He wasn't. He had a well-defined, toned frame; lithe and sleek, not unlike a dancer. _I suppose running around London like that is more exercise than I thought. _The aponeuroses of his external abdominal obliques pointed tantalisingly towards his groin. She gave in and let her eyes linger on the bulge there, hoping that neither brother would back out before she got to see what promised to be a rather impressive erection.

She'd never given Mycroft's appearance much thought; she'd only just met him, for one. Besides, she hadn't obsessed about _him. _Still, as different as he was from his brother, he was not unattractive. His creamy, freckled skin was equally pale but more warmly toned than Sherlock's chiselled alabaster. Ginger curls contrasted with Sherlock's bare chest. And although she mainly wanted to see Sherlock, she felt a pang of desire as Sherlock removed Mycroft's pants to reveal a thick, half-hard cock. She was profoundly thankful that Mycroft had not completely turned his back to her. _Christ._

When Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of his brother, she audibly gasped.

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft and smiled before he grasped his cock and pulled the foreskin back. Then he wrapped his lips around the head of it and started to tease him.

Every now and then, he'd pull off his cock far enough to be able to glance at Mycroft fondly. Mycroft smiled back and gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

She watched in fascination as Mycroft grew steadily harder and thicker. Sherlock seemed to handle it effortlessly, sometimes taking him in more deeply. If his enthusiastic moaning was any indication, he loved it. Mycroft stayed quieter, but the look on his face expressed utter bliss, and he took deep, shuddering breaths. When Sherlock took him down to the root and buried his face in Mycroft's ginger curls, he fisted Sherlock's hair and finally let out a groan.

She squirmed against the chair, wishing she'd worn trousers instead of a skirt; anything with some _friction_. She wasn't about to start fondling herself, not in front of Sherlock, but _fucking hell. _

Mycroft pulled Sherlock to his feet. "Trousers. Now," he muttered. Then he held Sherlock's head in place and ran a series of open-mouthed half-bites, half-kisses along his jawline.

Sherlock fiddled desperately with his button and zip, more than a little distracted by Mycroft's attentions. He eventually shoved them down, still half-zipped, along with his pants. They both hissed as their bare skin finally touched, and Sherlock pulled Mycroft's arse closer so their erections rubbed together.

Molly bit her lower lip and forgot how to breathe.

_This is going to ruin me,_ she thought. She'd be replaying this in her head, for better or worse, for months.

Sherlock was just as beautiful as she'd imagined. She hadn't intended to stare at his cock like an obsessed schoolgirl, but she did. It was perfectly proportioned for his body - slightly longer and thinner than Mycroft's, with a small thatch of dark curls at its base. She dug her fingernails into the upholstered arms of the chair to resist her overwhelming urge to drop to her knees and wrap her lips around it.

She let her hand slip between her thighs and allowed herself one luxurious rub. She winced with pleasure and pulled her hand away. She'd closed her eyes for a second, delighting in the friction. She snapped them back open so she didn't miss anything else, and she prayed Sherlock hadn't seen her.

Sherlock was far too busy to notice anything except Mycroft. He'd wrapped his long, delicate fingers around both of their cocks and stroked them with what appeared to be agonising slowness. Mycroft made a low groan, almost a growl, and started pushing Sherlock backwards towards the wall. He pinned his brother against it, kissing him fiercely as they rubbed against each other.

"Tease," Sherlock muttered breathlessly as they came up for air.

Mycroft laughed and turned Sherlock so he was braced against the wall.

"Not really," he replied, as he ran his hand down Sherlock's tight abdomen and grasped his cock. He pressed his body against him and Molly could see Mycroft's cock nestle between the cheeks of Sherlock's perfect arse.

_Fuck._

Sherlock let out a cry of pleasure as Mycroft stroked him, and he bucked helplessly in his grasp.

"Maybe a little bit of tease," Mycroft said, and stilled his hand.

"No," exclaimed Sherlock in a pained voice. "Don't stop, please."

Mycroft leaned over and opened the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved a sachet of lubricant. He smeared it liberally over his fingers and his cock. Then he braced his dry hand on Sherlock's arse and worked one of the lubricated fingers between Sherlock's cheeks.

It slid inside effortlessly; Sherlock groaned, and Molly let out a small mewling noise. Nothing had prepared her for _that. _They seemed oblivious to her presence now, and she couldn't stand it any longer; she hiked her skirt up around her thighs and thrust her hand down her knickers. _God, yes. _She started rubbing herself, unconsciously matching Mycroft's pace as he fucked Sherlock. He added another finger, and Sherlock pressed eagerly back onto it.

"God, My, harder," he moaned, and his brother complied, thrusting into him faster now.

Molly strained to keep her eyes open as she rubbed against her fingers. Her own breath was ragged now, but she'd given up caring if they heard her. At this point, she didn't even care if they _saw _her. No one could be expected to witness this and _not _get off on it.

Mycroft shoved both fingers inside Sherlock as deep as he could, and leaned in close. "More?" he asked, breathily.

She wasn't sure if he meant 'more fingers' or just 'more' in general, but her question was answered when Sherlock begged, "No, just fuck me already."

She moaned and shoved two fingers inside her dripping pussy.

If they heard her, they didn't show it. Mycroft pulled his fingers from Sherlock's arse and used them to add more lube to his already-slick cock. She watched, rapt, as he positioned the head of his cock against Sherlock's arse, and pushed slowly and steadily inside.

Sherlock emitted a low groan so raw and sexual she forgot how to breathe again.

She sank down in the chair and braced her feet on the floor, desperate for more and deeper penetration as she fucked her hand.

Mycroft braced both hands on Sherlock's hips and started to move. Her mouth watered at the sight of his cock disappearing into Sherlock's perfect arse, and she tried to imagine what it felt like. If Sherlock's ecstatic reactions were anything to go by, it must feel incredible. Even Mycroft, who'd been so quiet up until now, moaned each time his cock drove deep inside him.

Sherlock kept thrusting back, urging his brother to move faster, but Mycroft held him firmly in place, controlling the pace and depth of his thrusts.

"Touch yourself," Mycroft hissed to Sherlock. Molly took it to heart, fucking herself hard and fast as she watched them get lost in each other. The sight of Sherlock pleasuring himself as his brother ploughed his arse was what finally sent her over the edge, shuddering and biting her fist to keep from crying out as she came.

Sherlock and Mycroft remained completely unaware of her as they chased their own orgasms. She laid there, sprawled across the chair, as Mycroft let Sherlock impale himself as hard as he wanted. She lazily licked her fingers clean of her own juices as Sherlock came, with a long, low scream, all over his own hand. Then she slowly pulled down her skirt and wiped her damp fingers on it as Mycroft pushed in deep one final time and spent inside his brother.

All three of them were sticky, breathing hard, and damned near _glowing_.

Part of her thought she should at least pretend not to have masturbated, but she couldn't be arsed. Besides, there was a huge bite-mark on her thumb - and that was the _least_ obvious sign.

Mycroft held Sherlock to his chest as he kissed his brother's neck and murmured indecipherable endearments into his hair. Then Sherlock twisted around and they kissed properly, slowly and gently, now that the urgency of arousal had passed. Eventually they broke apart, and Sherlock muttered something about dressing gowns. Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"We'll be back in a second," Sherlock said, and they both left the room. She ducked into the loo to wash her hands and straighten her skirt.

She'd just sat down again when they reappeared, wrapped in silk dressing gowns. Sherlock glanced at her and smiled.

"It looks like you enjoyed it, too," he said, not unkindly.

She blushed and nodded.

"Good. That was sort of the point, after all."

"Would you like a drink? Tea? Something?" Mycroft asked, trying to smooth over the awkward emotional complexity of the situation in the only way he knew how.

She nodded, and they made their way back towards the kitchen. Every time she ran into Sherlock from now on, she'd see him naked; moaning and braced against that wall. But there were worse fates. Much worse.


	11. Day 15

John had endured a mind-numbing day at the surgery and had stopped by the shop for milk and cereal on the way back to the flat. The only thing on this mind was a cup of tea, a nice sit-down with his book, and the hope that Sherlock hadn't done anything to the flat in his absence that would require the services of a haz-mat unit.

As he mounted the stairs, he heard classical music coming from the flat; an orchestra, not just Sherlock's violin, which was odd - he rarely listened to music. He opened the door and nearly dropped the shopping when he saw the tableau in front of him. Sherlock was on his knees, in front of Mycroft, sucking him off.

He gasped and turned back into the hallway, closing - no, almost slamming - the door behind him.

Holy fuck.

They'd both been clothed; well, with the exception that Mycroft had his trousers open enough to have his cock down Sherlock's throat, but still. His mind tried to wrap itself around what he'd just seen, and utterly failed. It didn't look like Mycroft had forced him to do it - far from it. The blissful look on Sherlock's face - well, the one that had been replaced by surprise when he walked in - made it look bloody well consenting.

His thoughts were cut short as Sherlock opened the door.

"Sorry, John. Do come in. I wasn't expecting you home so soon." He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and smiled.

He struggled to find an appropriate answer, and failed.

Mycroft, still standing up against the wall, gave him a tight smile. His trousers were done up, and he was the picture of composure, if you didn't count the bulge at his groin. "Hello, John. Lovely to see you."

John glowered at him, tried not to think about the reason for the bulge, and resisted the urge to say something rude.

He rounded on his flatmate. "What the fuck, Sherlock? I… I don't even know where to start."

He saw Sherlock make eye contact with Mycroft and nod.

"Perhaps I should be going," Mycroft said.

"Perhaps you should," John replied, with undisguised menace.

"There's no need to be rude, John," Sherlock huffed, as Mycroft gathered up his things.

"No need to be…? Sherlock! I just saw you blowing your brother in our living room. What sort of reaction does this call for, exactly?"

"A less outraged one, I think. I'm sure you've had sex with women in the living room while I'm not here."

"Yes, but not with my brother!"

"You don't have a brother, John, and Harry's a lesbian; I doubt she'd be interested."

It took every ounce of effort John could muster not to punch Sherlock in the face. Instead, he snarled in exasperation, stormed up the stairs, and slammed his bedroom door behind him so hard the window shook.

"John?" Sherlock called up after him.

"Shut up and leave me alone," he shouted in response. Mercifully, Sherlock did.

He sat on his bed, mentally trying to put the words "Sherlock" and "incest" in the same sentence. It was jarring. His respect and, well, outright adoration of Sherlock, clashed nastily with thoughts of inbreeding and moral outrage. It didn't help that the image of Sherlock on his knees kept flashing across his thoughts.

He lasted about ten minutes before his need for an explanation overwhelmed his desire to put the whole thing out of his mind. Well, that, and the need for a stiff drink.

He stormed down the stairs and glared at Sherlock before he went into the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and poured a more-than-generous portion of Sherlock's good scotch into it.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to change his mind. He sat at the desk, quietly, and waited for John to speak.

John took a swig of the scotch. "Now, Sherlock, tell me what the fuck is going on."

"I would have thought it was obvious, John."

John wanted to throw something at him. How could he be so infuriating? "Is this some sort of sexual experiment? Something other people get out of their system in university? Er, I mean sex, not being gay…" he trailed off, embarrassed at how awful that had sounded.

"Of course it's not an experiment. I have had prior sexual experience, you know," he added, dryly. "No, things are exactly as they appear. We are in an incestuous relationship."

"And you don't see anything wrong with that?"

"Why should I? We're both consenting adults. It's not like there's any chance of pregnancy, and he's arguably one of the few people on earth who understands exactly what it's like to live in my brain. Other than 'archaic social taboo', give me one good reason why I should be ashamed of my behaviour."

"It's just…"

"Yes?"

"…"

"You don't have one, do you?"

"It's just…"

"Don't you dare say 'wrong', John. I am in a relationship that fulfils both my sexual and emotional needs; I've been in it for 10 years. The fact that we've been able to sustain it despite the need for secrecy is testament to how much we are willing to sacrifice for it. I suggest you don't trivialise or denigrate it."

"That's not what I was going to say, Sherlock." It honestly wasn't. He'd certainly thought it, but Sherlock would never forgive him if he said it. "It's just… the living room? Couldn't you at least do it in the bedroom? With the door closed?"

"We weren't in your chair, and we never have been."

Thank fuck for that, he thought, and managed a weak smile.

"It's unfortunate that you walked in on us, John. Mycroft had wanted some music, and it masked the sound of your footsteps on the stairs. Besides, I wasn't expecting you back for at least another hour. I suppose I am expected to apologise for this, so please consider this my apology. I'll restrict any further activities to the bedroom, behind closed doors."

"But… what does this mean?"

"I don't understand."

"How does this, you know, change things? Do you still want me to stay here?"

"I don't want to you to leave, and I don't see why you should. You're still my best friend. You're still vital to my work. The only difference is that I won't have to maintain my deception regarding my relationship."

It all started to fall into place: the Sunday dinners, the opera, the odd nights with Molly at the lab. "You could have told me."

"Could I?"

No, not really, he thought. He didn't answer. Eventually, he asked, "Are you happy with this, Sherlock?"

"I wouldn't have done this for ten years if I wasn't. You know how people used to be jailed simply for being gay? Well, incest is still illegal, punishable by two years in prison."

"Surely they don't prosecute…"

"It's still on the books. I'd rather not find out."

"Fuck."

"Quite," Sherlock replied. "Now, the more important question is, do you still want to live here? If you decide you can't, I'm sure Mycroft can arrange things so that you'll be comfortable elsewhere."

"Of course I want to live here, you idiot. You, the cases, the excitement: why would I want to leave? I certainly don't want to go back to living by myself, bored to tears." He looked back up at Sherlock. "I suppose this is no different from you having any other boyfriend, really. Except that Mycroft kidnapped me and offered me money to spy on you." He squinted in confusion. "Hang on a sec, what was that all about?"

"Appearances have to be maintained, John. He'd rather not have his employers aware of his situation, for obvious reasons."

"So he had me kidnapped to make it look like he was… protecting you?"

"Certain elements of my past make it plausible that he'd want to, yes."

"Ah," he said, remembering the fake drugs bust. "Right."

"So, now you know about my incestuous relationship," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. "We're all good?"

"Yes… yes, it's all good." It wasn't, but given a few days, he thought it could be.

Sherlock seemed to read his mind. "I realise this will require time to process, John, and I understand if it takes a while to not be repulsed by the idea. Please feel free to ask questions, but I do ask that you show discretion. I can't have this getting out, for obvious reasons."

He marvelled at just how mundanely Sherlock treated the whole thing, but then, Sherlock had been living with this for years. John had struggled with his sexuality when he joined the Army, but now it was just part of who he was. He didn't feel the need to justify it. He supposed it was sort of the same thing.

He smiled, glad he'd never acted on any of those feelings he had for Sherlock. Mycroft would have killed him.

* * *

_to be continued...  
_


	12. Day 29

**A/N:** This is Day 29 of 'ChasingRiver's 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge': "**Threesome/group sex**"

**Warnings**: sibling incest

**Summary**: John comes to terms with Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship. Fairly intimate terms.

* * *

**Previously, in **_**Getting Caught (Day 15): **_

_"There's no need to be rude, John," Sherlock huffed, as Mycroft gathered up his things._

_"No need to be…? Sherlock! I just saw you blowing your brother in our living room. What sort of reaction does this call for, exactly?"_

* * *

John had bought it, of course - Sherlock's 'married to his work' bit; he never had any reason to question it. But now that Sherlock had revealed the truth, the magnitude of his relationship with Mycroft became much more apparent. Sherlock never crossed a line - never tried to give him details he didn't want - but 'nights at the lab' became 'dinner with Mycroft', and mysterious absences 'for a case' became 'I'll be at Mycroft's; back tomorrow morning.'

He couldn't help but feel that it had cleared the air, even though he hadn't realised it needed clearing.

It took him two days, three pints at the pub, and a hard look at his own moral inventory to come to terms with what Sherlock had called an 'archaic social taboo'. His moral inventory was pretty damning: he'd had his share of one-night stands and a few horribly disastrous relationships that were entirely his fault. Sherlock had been in a loving and committed relationship for ten years. Who was he to judge? Sherlock was happy, and that was what mattered.

His unspoken desire to sleep with Sherlock now seemed well and truly doomed. It had been a spectacularly bad idea it had been easier to accept when he'd believed Sherlock was asexual, but then it turned out he'd been essentially married all along. At least he hadn't inadvertently crossed Mycroft by coming on to him. He'd probably be looking for another flat by now, assuming he was still alive to tell the tale.

Mycroft had been positively _nice _to him since the whole affair, though. It wasn't even a 'If you tell a soul, I'll hunt you down with knives' sort of nice, either. It actually seemed genuine.

Sherlock's behaviour, excepting his newfound openness about his absences, remained entirely the same.

And that was part of the problem: he found his own behaviour changing in subtle ways.

Now that he knew Sherlock was gay (or, at least, not straight), he wanted to tell him about his own sexuality. It wasn't that he wanted to break them up, or even get him into bed. (Well, if he was honest, he did still want to get him into bed, but he didn't plan on doing anything about it.) He just wanted Sherlock to understand that he knew what he was going through. _Had gone through. Whatever. _Shared experiences. Bonding. _God, not 'bondage'. Don't think about bondage._

He casually commented on the sexuality of well-known media figures and gay rights issues. He abruptly stopped when he realised it probably seemed like pandering.

He let his 'relationship' with Jennifer - more a series of disastrous dates, really - dissolve in the now-predictable manner. Was it deliberate or just the natural order of things? He wasn't sure. Either way, there was no sense of loss. Sherlock on a bad night was, well, pretty awful. But Sherlock on a good night, or even a mediocre one, was far more fun than a date.

He found himself sharing details about his personal life - stories about his childhood and his time in Afghanistan. As long as Sherlock wasn't involved in an experiment, he listened intently, and John basked in the glow of his attention.

Then he grew more bold: he talked about his past relationships with men, deliberately replacing the pronoun 'he' with the gender-neutral 'they'. He told him about Harry's disastrous 'coming out' to their parents. In short, he told Sherlock things he'd never told anyone else.

It both thrilled and terrified him, skating along the edge of confession like this.

He _wanted_ Sherlock to deduce it. Each time he broached the subject, he expected a haughty proclamation of, 'Yes, John, it's quite obvious; you've had male lovers.' Surely he'd caught on by now? But Sherlock said nothing.

* * *

Busy schedules prevented Sherlock and Mycroft from discussing the incident at length; a few brief meetings and 'accidental' encounters weren't sufficient to hold a conversation in private. They met for dinner a week later, at Mycroft's.

"So he's accepted it then? He certainly seemed less… hostile, the last time I spoke with him."

"Mm, apparently," Sherlock replied between bites of mashed potatoes. "I think he's just glad you aren't going to have him shot or something."

"He does seem genuinely terrified of me."

"He doesn't see kidnapping as an acceptable form of social introduction, Mycroft. Not many people do." It was one of the few social cues he'd picked up from John, and he was rather proud of it.

Mycroft shrugged and cut a slice from his steak. "Is everything else going well?"

"Mm," Sherlock nodded, absently. "It seems he's bisexual. He hasn't told me yet."

"You might be the only person who _hasn't_ noticed his affection for you, dear brother. I don't know if he does it consciously or not."

"Really? Well, his 'vague hints' at his sexuality have had all the subtlety of tactical nuclear strikes."

Mycroft sighed a little. "When he tells you, Sherlock, _don't_ tell him you knew."

He frowned. "Why not? He enjoys my deductions."

"Because it's rude. He's clearly been summoning up the nerve to say something; don't take that away from him. You might want to consider your reaction though."

"Well, positive, of course. There's nothing wrong with it, clearly."

"No, I mean your reaction to his interest in you, explicitly stated or otherwise."

Sherlock frowned. "I thought he was bringing it up it to further our camaraderie - 'shared emotional experiences' and all that."

"You honestly hadn't considered that he might be attracted to you?"

"No," Sherlock replied, irritable about the obvious oversight. But then his lips curled into a thoughtful smile. "No, I hadn't. But we do share a remarkable synergy. I must say, the idea makes me curious." His eyes wandered away from Mycroft's as he absently thumbed the side of his cheek.

"I thought it might," Mycroft replied in a neutral tone.

"Why would you bring this up, Mycroft?"

"You have a remarkable attraction to 'new and dangerous'; I don't think it's much of a leap. I think it's better for us to have this discussion before anything happens - if it happens - rather than afterwards. I'll admit I feel rather jealous at the prospect of John making any sort of sexual overtures, but I feel it's a possibility."

He gave Mycroft a thoughtful look. "He'd be so _different _from you, don't you think?"

"Sherlock…" he warned.

"Oh, don't worry. I don't think he'd deliberately try to damage our relationship: I think he values my friendship too highly, and his past doesn't indicate that he's a home-wrecker."

"It's not particularly him that I'm worried about," Mycroft replied moodily and returned to his dinner - this time distractedly pushing it around the plate as opposed to eating it.

They sat for a few minutes; Sherlock stared at Mycroft and Mycroft stared at his food.

"What?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. "It's not like I'd do anything. I've never cheated on you."

"You've never respected anyone who's been interested, either. With all due respect, Sherlock, self-restraint is not your strong suit."

"Then why did you bring it up?" Sherlock replied. "You'd have been better served by never giving me the rather delicious idea."

"John's clearly trying to share his sexuality with you. Until now, all available evidence has told him that you have no interest in sex. I expect seeing you on your knees with my cock in your mouth has rather disabused him of that notion. Perhaps he's decided he wants you to know _he's_ available, even if he thinks you aren't." He looked back up at Sherlock and squinted. "Now that's an interesting idea."

"What?"

"What if you _were_ available? Well, sort of available. You're curious, and I'm jealous. I don't want this to come between us, Sherlock, and you've never been one to stay away from danger." He toyed with his potatoes before continuing. "Now that the idea is in your head, I think we should deal with it pre-emptively." He stopped, and looked unflinchingly at Sherlock. "I think it's something we should do together... as it were." He looked at his brother expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

Sherlock's expression morphed from confusion to delight. "Perv," he replied, in a tone that was more playful than damning.

"I never said I wasn't. If you find the idea distasteful, then of course I shall withdraw it."

"On the contrary…"

* * *

With the revelation about Sherlock's relationship, John's perception of Mycroft slowly started to change. The brothers' public meetings still strained the bounds of civility, yet now that he was in on their secret, their behaviour around _him_ changed dramatically. Mycroft lost his stiff formality and seemed comfortable in his own skin in a way John had never imagined possible. Sherlock seemed less withdrawn, even hours after Mycroft had left, as if his brother were some sort of mood-lifting drug.

He could see why their relationship worked. Most happily married couples he knew had nowhere _near_ this much chemistry - especially not after ten years together.

Mycroft joined them for meals at the flat, as long as Sherlock promised not to cook. He apparently shared John's fear of Sherlock's 'kitchen experiments', edible or otherwise. But John noticed, after the first few visits, that they never touched or shared any sort of affection.

One night, after dinner, he observed them intently as they moved around the tiny kitchen. Somehow, they never even brushed a hand against each other. John was halfway through his second beer and felt bolder than usual. "You don't have to do that, you know."

They both turned to look at him, and their twin gazes gave him the impression they knew exactly what he meant.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked. "I was just clearing up a bit."

"You don't have to avoid physical contact for my sake. It doesn't bother me."

Sherlock almost seemed to defer to Mycroft, who replied, "We didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable in any way, John. We know your initial… _exposure_ to our relationship was perhaps a little traumatic."

It had been, at first.

But then the image of their coupling did a sort of mental flip in his head and became arousing rather than repulsive.

And the more he got to know Mycroft… well, the more _both _of them started to figure into the fantasies he was trying like hell to repress, because fantasies about his flatmate and his brother were the last thing he needed. He didn't want to ruin things with Sherlock, and Mycroft would still kill him. Twice, perhaps, just for good measure.

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable." He took another swig from his beer, and then blurted it out before he could let himself think about the implications. "I'm not straight." Relief washed over him, followed promptly by nausea and panic. _Fucking hell._ That wasn't how the speech was supposed to go; he'd been rehearsing it for weeks.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it.

"I'm not straight," he repeated, and the pitch of his voice rose. "I've been in relationships with men. It really doesn't bother me." He was babbling now, clutching his beer like it could somehow save him. _God, I'm an idiot. What was I thinking, blurting it out like that? What the fuck have I done? Sherlock's going to take this the wrong way. They both are._

"John," Mycroft said in a soothing voice, "it's all right. Why don't we go and sit down in the living room?"

He felt numb as he shuffled into the next room and collapsed into his chair.

Mycroft touched his hand and gently eased the bottle from John's death grip. "It's all right," he repeated. "I can assure you that your sexuality is not an issue."

"But… the roommate thing… I don't want it to be weird."

"I have a very high tolerance for 'weird', John," Sherlock replied. "And if you've made it this long living with me, you do too; the body parts in the fridge, for example."

"Right," he said, staring at his hands in something like shock. "Right," he said again. "I just need to go to the loo." He got up and strode down the hall, willing his legs to work. He didn't dare glance at either of them. Not at the moment.

He closed the door to the small toilet and leaned against it to prevent anyone else from coming in, not that he thought they would try. He stared at his hands again and noticed that they weren't shaking, not even a little. _Well, I'm certainly not bored; I suppose I shouldn't be surprised._ He moved over to the sink and stared at his face in the mirror. _This has to be the most inept 'coming out' ever_, he thought. He doused his hands with cold water and ran them over his face and up into the back of his hairline, pressing his fingers into the base of his skull. It helped him think.

_Neither of them seems the least bit fazed, the bastards. They might have had the decency to express some sort of surprise. They probably both worked it out weeks ago. _

He wondered if they knew about his recent fantasies. He desperately hoped not. _Not unless they're going to suggest I join in. _He braced himself against the sink and stared into the mirror again. _All right. I've been in combat; I can take whatever the Holmes brothers care to throw my way._

* * *

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft and quirked his lips into a slight smirk. "Well, that was more… spontaneous than I'd expected."

"Indeed. I didn't think he'd say anything while _I_ was here; he must be getting more comfortable with my presence."

"I think we should ask him now."

"God no," Mycroft replied. "Give the poor man some space. Let him get used to the idea that you're not going to have some sort of… negative reaction."

"Jesus, Mycroft. You make it sound like I'm some sort of noxious chemical."

"Your words, little brother. Not mine," Mycroft replied with barely disguised mirth.

* * *

John strode back down the hallway, his confidence rebuilt.

He sat down in his chair and gave the brothers a closed-mouth smile. "Right," he said. "Well, now that that's out of the way…"

Sherlock spoke up. "Why were you so reticent, John; did you really think I would react badly? You can be such an idiot at times."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's complete lack of tact.

"And you can be a complete prat," John replied without hesitation. "It was prior history: Harry didn't speak to me for a month when I told her."

"Ah… Harry. I always get her wrong. She thought you were stealing her thunder."

"Actually, 'belittling her life choices' was the phrase she used, but yes, that was essentially it. I came to terms with my sexuality long ago; it always seems like everyone else has a problem with it."

"That's usually the way," muttered Mycroft, and John felt a rather surprising pang of sympathy for him.

"I'm touched that you felt you could share this with us, John," Mycroft continued. "Perhaps we should go out for a meal sometime in celebration."

"Yes, that would be… nice," John said, hesitating a little. He had the disturbing feeling that Mycroft and Sherlock were up to something.

* * *

Life continued as normally as it usually did, considering that he lived with Sherlock. Every now and then he thought Sherlock might be flirting with him, but he drove the idea from his mind. He wasn't venturing anywhere near _that_ minefield. His common sense was intact, no matter how much he might fantasise about his flatmate; Sherlock had been fairly unequivocal in his declaration of love for Mycroft, after all. The flirting was either imagination on his part, or some sort of ego-boosting on Sherlock's. Either way, he wasn't about to respond.

And then on Tuesday, while he was quietly reading the newspaper after some Indian take-away, the questions started.

"John?"

"Mm?" he replied absently.

"When was the last time you slept with a man?"

John nearly spat out his tea. "What?!"

"I believe you heard me, or you wouldn't have reacted like that."

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you. What makes you think I'd tell you?"

He shrugged. "You tell me everything else."

"Why the sudden interest?"

"You wouldn't have brought it up the other day if you didn't want to talk about it."

It was partially true, but 'Subtly letting your roommate know you're available' was more accurate. He shrugged; it seemed Sherlock believed he'd be 'playing therapist', and that was far safer for everyone involved. "It's been a while - when I was in the Army."

Sherlock nodded, knowingly.

"Don't give me that look," he said defensively. "The Army had nothing to do with it. It wasn't the only time I've slept with men, I'll have you know."

Sherlock smirked. "It sounds like you had quite a hectic social schedule before you met me."

"You've singlehandedly helped _destroy_ it, certainly."

"Oh, come on, John. You've never seemed that enthusiastic about your dates. Why do you even bother?"

"Because _some_ of us still enjoy a little sex every now and then, even if we haven't met our _soulmate_." It sounded more bitter than he'd intended.

Sherlock looked away.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's just… hard not having anyone, you know?"

"You don't seem to be looking for a relationship…"

"Because you've wrecked them," John chimed in.

"…so why not just have sex?"

"It doesn't work that way with most women. Once you hit thirty, the exceptions to that are few and far between."

"From what I understand, a lot of gay men don't feel the same way."

"Mm, well. Not exactly subtle to go down to the Rainbow Room and bring back a young stud for the evening. I think you would have noticed."

Sherlock huffed. "I wouldn't have cared."

"No, I know. It's just… inertia, really. It's easier to date women and not have discussions like this one. If I was _really _interested in someone, I wouldn't let you put them off so easily. As it is…" he trailed off and shrugged.

"So you just used them for sex?"

"I never promised them anything long-term, and they never asked. There was mutual, er, usage. Wait, we're still talking about women, right?"

Sherlock looked up, suddenly interested.

"I was right," he said with immense satisfaction.

"Right?"

"You did have a long-term relationship with a man. When was it? University?"

"Yes. How did you… oh, nevermind. Yes. Ten months. We were roommates."

"Let me guess: he wanted to stay closeted and you gave him the ultimatum of outing himself in order to take the relationship seriously or leaving. He left."

"I don't want to discuss it, Sherlock."

"Well, it explains why you have a lot of flings."

"Sherlock," he started, warningly. "Just… enough, all right? I'm not having this conversation. I don't want my relationships reduced to a series of deductions that'll make you feel good about yourself." He stormed into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Sherlock followed him.

"You shouldn't be offended, John. I'm actually quite impressed with your ability to separate your romantic relationships from your sexual ones."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment, Sherlock."

"Don't be silly; of course it is."

John busied himself with the kettle as Sherlock leaned back against the counter. John rolled his eyes; every movement Sherlock made seemed graceful and almost choreographed. His apparent ignorance of his own sensuality frustrated John to no end. Or perhaps he was all too aware; he wouldn't put it past him.

He'd just gotten out the teapot when Sherlock spoke. "I've been with Mycroft so long that I've forgotten what casual flings are like." He said it with the casual breeziness of someone making polite dinner conversation.

John froze, suddenly very glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face. Thoughts raced through his brain: all of them sexual and none of them helpful. Images of Sherlock on his knees in front of Mycroft. Except this time, it wasn't Mycroft. He swallowed as the room started to get unbearably close. _Say something. Anything. _"I suppose that's what it's like then, you know, in long-term relationships?" he asked, willing his voice to remain steady.

"I suppose so."

Sherlock's voice was closer. Right behind him. He turned around to find Sherlock standing entirely too close for comfort; he instinctively backed up against the counter, but there was nowhere to go.

"We've never had what you would call a 'conventional' relationship, John." His voice had dropped well below its normal range and dripped with sex.

John's eyes were focused on Sherlock's; he seemed unable to pull away. It had been entirely too long since he'd said anything. _Was there a question? _It was difficult to keep track. Sherlock held his gaze, not even blinking. "What?" John croaked, hoping to re-establish his thoughts. They'd completely left his mind and been filled with more images of Sherlock.

"Mycroft and I. We've never had a conventional relationship."

_Oh fuck. Mycroft. Mycroft will kill me. _He scurried away sideways, breaking Sherlock's predatory gaze, and bolted from the kitchen. "Mycroft. Right. Like you said, no casual flings."

Sherlock followed him.

"Not traditionally, no."

"Jesus. Are you coming on to me, Sherlock?"

"I'm certainly trying, but at least one of us is completely clueless about the mechanics because I seem to be failing spectacularly." The statement was tinged with exasperation.

"Sherlock, I… we can't. It's not that I wouldn't love to, but I won't let you cheat on Mycroft with me. It's wrong. I thought you said you were happy?" He didn't want to sit down: sitting meant being cornered, no escape routes. His brain had switched to fight-or-flight mode, and 'flight' was definitely the order of the day. He settled for a nervous 'I'm casually leaning against the back of my chair' stance that he hoped didn't seem too panicked.

"Of course we're happy." The exasperation was gone, and the deep chocolate voice had returned. "And who said anything about cheating? As I said, we have a very unconventional relationship."

"Are you telling me that he _knows_ you're hitting on me?"

"We've discussed the concept, yes. He does get jealous, though."

"He's going to kill me, isn't he? Oh Christ, I should never have said anything; I knew you'd figure it out eventually. Fuck. Look, I can move out if that's what it takes."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

The gears in John's brain jammed into reverse and ground to a halt. "Wait, what? Why are you giving me that look?"

"The bastard. He was right; you've been interested all along."

"No! Well, perhaps sort of. But it's never been worth ruining our friendship over. Besides, I didn't even think you 'did sex' until recently."

"So what you're saying," he said with a smile, "is that this is another excellent example of your ability to separate your emotional and sexual needs."

"It is?"

"Yes, but I'm not just asking you to have sex with me, John."

"You aren't?" Two word sentences were apparently all he could manage.

"No, I'm asking you to have sex with _both_ of us."

John suddenly realised that combat hadn't even remotely prepared him for the Holmes brothers. "What?" he managed to get out, his voice not much more than a squeak.

Sherlock took another two steps towards him. Once again, he stood entirely too close, effectively pinning him against the back of the chair.

"Mycroft doesn't want my curiosity to hurt our relationship; he'd prefer to keep a close eye on the situation."

His brain oscillated between the word 'curiosity' and the idea of sleeping with Sherlock. With both of them.

'Curiosity' won. Barely.

"Hang on a sec. What do you mean by 'curiosity'?"

"Weren't you paying attention for the last ten minutes?" Sherlock replied, less caustically than John would have expected.

"Um…"

"I've been in this relationship for a very long time, and I have no intention of sabotaging it. But a certain amount of variety would be most welcome… with the right person." He uttered the last phrase slowly and then wet his lips with his tongue.

Once again, John struggled to keep his mind on the conversation.

"Mycroft is not averse to the idea, although his level of participation would be entirely up to you."

"You two have already discussed this?" he asked, incredulously.

He shrugged. "Your point?"

"Shouldn't you have _asked_ me first?"

"Not really: my relationship with Mycroft takes precedence." Then he gave John the cheeky grin that John was powerless against. "But I'm asking you _now_." He took another step towards John. "So, are you interested?"

He didn't even have to think about it. "God, yes."

Sherlock slowly leaned in to kiss him and John's stomach nearly fell through the floor in anticipation. Then Sherlock's phone chimed with a message.

Sherlock growled in response and pulled back. "Goddamnit," he muttered, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

_Not without me. -MH_

A second message followed quickly on its heels.

_I'll be there in five minutes; I left when you started stalking him in the kitchen. I know how much self-control you have. -MH_

_And apologise to John. -MH_

Sherlock backed away and stormed off across the living room in a huff.

John's phone beeped.

_I apologise for our behaviour. Sherlock was supposed to wait until we were together to discuss this. -MH_

He looked up at Sherlock with surprise. "You really have talked about this, then?"

"Of course," he replied, waving away the question.

"But how did he know about… this?" He motioned to the space between them.

"The camera in the kitchen, most likely."

"Ah. The camera. In the kitchen. There's a camera in the kitchen?" he asked, wrinkles creasing his forehead.

"They're all over the flat, everywhere except the bedrooms and the toilets. I insisted he remove those."

Images of his past 'dates' flashed through John's head.

"Don't worry," Sherlock replied, guessing his thoughts. "Voyeurism isn't his thing. Surveillance, yes, but not voyeurism."

"Well, that's reassuring," John replied, in a tone that indicated it really wasn't.

"Between his position and my profession, there _is_ a certain amount of risk to my well-being. Surely you've seen that by now." He shrugged and added, "He worries."

John rolled his eyes. "You could have mentioned it."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"I wouldn't walk around in a towel, for one."

"Don't sell yourself short, John; you look fantastic in a towel."

Somehow, the unexpected compliment and the slightly lewd tone in which it was delivered defused his irritation. He walked over to Sherlock, who was staring out the window with his back to him. _Two can play at this predatory thing. _Before he could think about it too much, he pushed right up against him and trapped him in place. "So, you've been watching when I wander 'round half-naked, eh?" His tone was no longer mild, but the authoritative voice of an Army officer. He felt Sherlock tense beneath him. "And now you want to fuck me?" he continued, drawing out the sentence in a way that was both sexual and slightly menacing.

Sherlock sucked in a shuddery breath and nodded, still with his back to him.

It seemed 'predatory' worked just as well on Sherlock as it did him. If not better. Which was good, because John had no intention of bottoming in this situation.

"Well, you should be careful what you wish for, Sherlock. I might make you _pay _for all those things you 'forgot' to mention."

Sherlock twisted around, but John didn't give the taller man any more space. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned. His roommate's eyes focused down on him, full of fascination.

"This is unexpected."

"Perhaps this'll teach you to cross me," John replied and pushed Sherlock back against the window frame. He held him there and looked up at him; he could feel Sherlock's breath on his face.

"I don't know, I'm sort of enjoying it."

He wanted to kiss him, but he didn't know if Mycroft would approve and _that _could be dangerous. Footsteps on the stairs a second later made it a moot point. Better judgement suggested that he should release Sherlock, but better judgement didn't really figure into any of this. He stayed where he was.

"Hello, John," Mycroft practically purred as he walked through the door. "I see you have Sherlock firmly in hand."

John raised his palms away from Sherlock, a little defensively.

"Figuratively. There'll be plenty of time for a literal interpretation later, won't there, Sherlock?"

"I sincerely hope so," his brother replied.

"John, we all need to sit down and talk about this. It's important that you understand the complexity of the situation."

"Oh, Christ," Sherlock muttered.

John backed away from Sherlock and turned to face Mycroft. "That's all right; I think I get it. Just sex. No emotional entanglements. You have to be present. Any exceptions and I'm guessing I'm out on my ear. Is that about right?"

Sherlock smirked at John's assessment.

"A little more blunt than I'd have put it, but that is the gist of it; yes."

He looked Mycroft over and gave him a lascivious smile. "Good. Sherlock said you might be interested in joining in?"

"It doesn't sound like that would be a problem," Mycroft replied, the statement not quite a question.

"Not in the least," John said brightly. They both turned and looked at Sherlock. He leaned against the wall with his half-lidded eyes full of lust and his full lips slightly open; the absolute picture of sex.

"Wonderful," Mycroft replied. His eyes raked over his brother once more and then he turned to John with a conspiratorial smile. "Where shall we start?"

John wasn't sure if his question was rhetorical; he planned to defer to Mycroft unless they told him otherwise. Besides, as much as they both featured in his fantasies, his primary interest lay in Sherlock. "With his clothes, I should think, unless you meant '_Where_ should we start?'" He motioned towards the hallway.

Sherlock spoke up. "I know where _I'd _liketo start."

Mycroft raised his brows. "Mm?"

"On my knees."

The statement sent a surge of heat to John's gut and a sudden desire to see that lithe body used for anything _other _than 'transport'. He was about to pin him to the wall and snog him senseless when he stopped and turned to Mycroft. "Kissing off limits?"

"No, but thank you for asking," he replied, smiling.

"Good, because I've wanted to do this for a while."

"You're not going to ask _me_?" Sherlock enquired, sarcastically.

"I think we both know what _you_ want," he said and pushed Sherlock gently backwards until he was backed up against the window. He crowded against him, forcing Sherlock to look down to meet his stare. When Sherlock moved to kiss him, John pulled back. "Actually, I think you should ask _me_. Nicely."

Sherlock slowly ran his tongue across his upper lip, leaving his mouth slightly open. "Please," he whispered, "kiss me."

He had a sudden realisation that he had no idea _what _Sherlock liked. Did he want it hard and rough, with his hands pinned against the wall and their lips smashed together? Or would he want it to be soft and tender? His own sexual impulses leaned towards hard and rough, but this was Sherlock: their shared history, and their shared future, required him to _get this right. _And he had no idea what 'right' was.

But Mycroft did.

And involving Mycroft in these decisions would make this whole bizarre experience seem less like 'Fucking Sherlock' and a lot more like a threesome. Because at the moment, no matter how much Mycroft participated, it felt like 'Fucking Sherlock', and that was probably a Bad Thing. He didn't care whether Sherlock believed he could separate sex and emotions - he knew was treading on thin ice.

"C'mere, Mycroft."

Sherlock whimpered a little at the delayed gratification.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you get yours," John whispered.

When John sensed Mycroft directly behind him, he reached and pulled him forward so the three of them were inches apart. Mycroft's scent - dark, sensual, and entirely unexpected for a man wearing a conservative three-piece suit - made his gut throb. "So Mycroft," he whispered, "tell me what he likes. Better yet, show me." He left the wording deliberately ambiguous. Mycroft could choose to interpret it the 'obvious' way and demonstrate on Sherlock, or… John was starting to hope he'd choose the alternative. This close, with Mycroft's carefully measured breath on his cheek, he felt surprisingly drawn to him. If Mycroft didn't choose to demonstrate on him, perhaps he'd have to take the initiative. He turned his head to face him and gave him a querying look with a hint of a smile: enough to say, 'Yes, that's exactly what I meant.'

Before he had a chance to think about it further, Mycroft's hand gripped the back of his head and pulled him in for a hard, possessive kiss that flared white hot in his brain. It made his knees want to give out. _Jesus._ When Mycroft let him go, he opened his eyes to a slightly questioning look on Mycroft's face. He smiled in response. He blinked. Once. Twice. Took a deep breath and exhaled. "Right, then." He tried not to lose his cool and did anyway; the words in his brain spilled out of his mouth unheeded. "Jesus, Mycroft. Who taught you how to kiss like that?"

Mycroft smirked and inclined his head towards Sherlock.

_Fuck. Of course._

As John turned back towards his flatmate, he saw Sherlock's expression flit between lust and irritation.

"What?" John asked in a low voice, as he put one arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him closer, "Have to be the centre of attention, don't you?" He kissed him forcefully before Sherlock could respond. He didn't give Sherlock the chance to lead, and it didn't seem like Sherlock wanted one - not if the low moans coming from him were any indication. Sherlock pulled him closer, and John became aware of Sherlock's warm chest pressed against his own. He'd never imagined Sherlock could be this intoxicating, this sensual. He'd expected clinical, but clinical wouldn't make his dick this hard.

He finally pulled back, and for once Sherlock didn't have any words at the ready, just a stupid grin.

"Kiss Mycroft," John said; he felt like some sort of lecherous porn director but he didn't particularly care. What he got surprised him. Mycroft kissed his brother with the same intensity as he'd kissed John, but there was an underlying tenderness to it that made it so much more _significant._ Ten years (longer, he supposed) of emotional history tinged even the twitch of an eyebrow with depth and meaning. Watching them share a kiss was almost mind-blowing.

By the time they'd finished, Sherlock looked debauched. His shirt was half-pulled out of his trousers, which were bulging obscenely at his groin, and there was a light flush on his chest, barely showing at the top of his shirt. It made John want to tear the expensive piece of material right off him. He restrained himself, but pushed him back against the wall and palmed Sherlock's erection.

"God, I want to see you," he growled. "I want to hear you moan." He pressed against Sherlock's dick; it seemed thick and heavy, and his mouth watered at the thought. "Perhaps we'll strip you naked and make you take both of us while we're still dressed. Would you like that?" He wondered if he'd crossed a line, being dominant like this. Mycroft was right next to him now - another pair of hands pinning Sherlock to the wall. John gave him a quick, questioning glance and he almost-imperceptibly nodded his assent. _Good. _John wasn't sure why this felt so _right_, ordering Sherlock around, but God, it was hot. "You said you wanted to be on your knees, and I'm going to give you your chance. Get your kit off, and make it quick."

Sherlock squirmed out from beneath their grasp and almost ripped the buttons from his shirt in his enthusiasm to remove it. Mycroft leaned against the wall and watched with a smile on his lips. John joined him, watching with a hungry gaze as Sherlock toed off his shoes and pulled down his trousers.

Sherlock wasn't beyond putting on a bit of a show. He left his pants on while he bent over at the waist to take off his socks, giving them both an eyeful of his plush arse.

"Tease," John said, glad for every second of it. He knew Sherlock's form from his clingy dressing gowns, and he'd certainly gotten more than an eyeful at the Palace, but being allowed to watch like this felt like a guilty thrill.

Sherlock twisted around, still bent over, and gave him a dazzling grin. "You don't seem to have a problem with that," he retorted, glancing at John's groin. He inched his pants down around his ankles and stepped out of them.

John couldn't stop staring at his cock. He knew it was rude, but _fuck. _Sherlock was gorgeous.

And waxed.

There wasn't a shred of hair anywhere near his cock.

John was absolutely fascinated, and more than a little transfixed. "Jesus, Sherlock, doesn't that hurt?"

"My erection? Not yet. Not as long as one of you does something about it."

"No, I mean the waxing. Good God. I can't even imagine…"

Sherlock gave him an enigmatic smile. Glancing at them, he said, "What about you two? Don't I even get a look?"

They were both still fully clothed, if rather uncomfortably. His earlier idea of letting Sherlock suck him off with his clothes on went by the wayside, and he started getting undressed.

Mycroft looked at both of them, shrugged mildly, and started doing the same.

Sherlock batted John's hands away from his shirt buttons. "Let me," he said in a low voice. He pushed John backwards against the wall as he worked his way down his chest. He pressed against him, grinding his erection against John's trousers.

John let out an embarrassingly needy moan. It didn't bode well for his campaign of 'impassive dominance'. He looked over; Mycroft was faring much better - calm and in control - but he'd had ten years with Sherlock and was probably used to this.

John had slumped against the wall to let Sherlock take care of his trousers when Mycroft spoke. "He can get awfully pushy if you let him, John."

Sherlock shot his brother a wicked grin even as his fingers slid John's trousers down over his hips. "He doesn't seem to be complaining, Mycroft." He ran his tongue over his lips and leaned in to give John a quick kiss. "Do you, John?"

He'd have been quite happy to let Sherlock do anything he wanted.

"Unless you'd _like_ me on my knees, that is," Sherlock added, coyly.

It was enough to remind John just how much he'd enjoyed ordering him around. "You're damned right I want you on your knees," he said, pushing him firmly to the floor.

Sherlock looked up at him before rubbing one hand along his cock through the material of his pants.

"Want a look at that, do you? Here; I'll give you a nice close look." He thumbed them down over his hips and his erection bobbed free. John took his dick in hand and rubbed it across Sherlock's delicate features. "Not as pretty as yours, is it? I never went in for that waxing stuff. Doesn't look like you mind though."

Apparently, he really didn't. Sherlock laved his balls as John rubbed his cock across his face. At some point, Mycroft moved to stand behind Sherlock. The only reason John noticed was because his brother's long, delicate fingers gripped his head firmly in place while John let Sherlock _observe _as much of his cock as he wanted. He moaned at the delicious sensation of Sherlock's soft face against him. "What do you think? Can you get it all in that gorgeous mouth of yours?"

Sherlock didn't even answer, he just showed him. He pulled John lower, eagerly taking his dick inside. He couldn't manage all of it, but he was close.

"Oh, God, yes," John moaned as the hot, wet suction enveloped him, and his head fell back against the wall as Sherlock's mouth did unspeakably delicious things.

It wasn't until he felt warm breath on his neck that he realised Mycroft had moved again. The man was a ghost.

Mycroft's lips brushed gently at his ear. "Is that _all_ you want to do to him, John?" he asked in a low voice. "Or is there something else?" His fingers skimmed across John's warm skin and came to rest on his hips. "Perhaps you'd like to concentrate your attentions elsewhere."

And now that Mycroft had given him the idea - the permission - _of course there was. _He moaned, trying to summon the words to reply. "Yeah, God…" he could swear Sherlock was being particularly good at this, right now, on purpose, just to drive him mad. "Um, condoms and lube… bedside table," he eventually stuttered.

Sherlock pulled off his cock, giving the head a teasing lick. "I'm so glad, John," he said. "I was afraid you were going to get spooked."

It sounded like a challenge, and knowing Sherlock, it probably was. Still, he wasn't beyond taking the bait, especially when it was so pretty.

"I'll show you how spooked I am, Sherlock," he replied. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head all the way back. The position forced his mouth open. With his other hand, John ran one finger beneath Sherlock's chin, over his Adam's apple, and down to his chest.

"Have you ever sucked cock with your neck like this, Sherlock? It leaves your throat completely open… just like a sword swallower. If there's any way I'm going to get my cock all the way down your throat, this is it." He kept his head pulled back, leaving Sherlock unable to move. "Do you think you can manage it? Or are you _spooked?_"

Sherlock tried to respond but his position rendered it as "oh". He shook his head. Mycroft came back down the stairs, saw Sherlock's position, and smiled at John in approval.

"Good," John replied. "I should warn you, having my dick lodged that far down your throat will cut off your breathing." As he said it, he clasped the fingers of his free hand around Sherlock's long, pale neck, and slowly tightened them.

Sherlock's eyes widened as John cut off his air, but he offered no resistance. John counted off seven seconds in his head and released his throat. Sherlock rasped in a deep breath.

"I see you have the situation well in hand, John, but it looks like you have something else in mind?"

"Oh, no - in addition to. He seemed to think I lacked the nerve to fuck him properly. I thought I'd make him work off the insult before I give him the pleasure of my dick up his arse."

Mycroft hummed his agreement. "Best not to let him get too pushy. Going to see just how much of you he can take?"

"Something like that. The angle should let me shove the whole thing down his throat." A quick glance at Sherlock's erection and the look of utter lust on his face made it very, very clear that the prospect excited him. Sherlock was more of a sub than John could have ever imagined, getting off the very idea of having his throat fucked raw.

John let go of Sherlock's hair and let his head and neck come back to their normal position. "I think we'll need the bed; doing it like this would probably give both of us back problems, and God help me if I had to have you as a patient." He pulled back on Sherlock's hair again and kissed him roughly; Sherlock moaned into it and writhed against him. "God, look at you," John muttered. The phrase 'wanton slut' drifted through his mind, in only the most positive of ways, but he didn't dare utter it. Some lines were better left uncrossed. He stood up and took Sherlock's hand. "C'mon." He looked at Mycroft and added, "Both of you."

Sherlock needed no persuasion as they entered the bedroom; he crawled sinuously onto his large bed, lying across it sideways on his back. He shimmied to the edge so his head hung off the side. "Is this how you want me, John?" he asked wickedly, holding his head up slightly to look John in the eye before he let it fall back - completely opening his mouth and throat to whatever John had in mind.

John could only nod; he was too busy watching Mycroft _(creamy, freckled, ginger: so different from Sherlock) _crawl onto the bed, and then onto Sherlock. He pinned his brother's arms down into the plush mattress and stopped, halfway up his body. His long, delicate tongue whipped out and circled one of Sherlock's nipples, causing him to buck against the mattress and moan.

"Good Lord, Sherlock," Mycroft chided. "Anyone would think you were starved for touch."

"I just crave it; there's a difference," he said, raising his head to reply.

"There's another word for that," his brother retorted, and Sherlock laughed as he lowered his head back against the side of the bed.

"Come over here, John. I don't know what you're waiting for; I'm ready and more than willing," he said, in that voice that dripped sex.

Mycroft smiled and went about marking his brother's skin with bites and kisses, grinding against him and keeping him pinned to the bed. "Don't worry John, I'll make sure he stays still."

"Mm, thank you, Mycroft. Very noble of you."

"I do what I can," he replied, dryly.

John wondered just how many people ever saw this side of Mycroft Holmes. Not many, he suspected.

He gave his cock a few strokes to bring it back to full hardness. If Sherlock wanted to take it all, he wanted to make sure it was a challenge. He moved to the side of the bed and stood directly in front of Sherlock. "Sure you're ready?" he teased.

"Ready for anything you can give me, John," he replied in a tone calculated to provoke.

That was just fine by him. He looked up at Mycroft, who had switched from licking Sherlock's nipples to leaving teasing bites that promised something more.

Sherlock's shoulders lined up against the edge of the mattress, and his head hung completely over the side. He gave John a dazzling smile.

John moved closer and pressed his groin gently against Sherlock's face. He sighed as his balls brushed across the soft skin of Sherlock's eyes and nose. He wondered what it felt like. Light pressure? Ticklish from his pubic hair? Certainly the smell of sex would fill his nostrils as John fucked him. He leaned back a little and pulled his hard cock lower so he could angle it into Sherlock's mouth, and eased it slowly inside.

He was tempted to thrust his entire length in at once, but there would be time to work up to that. He didn't want Sherlock gagging and miserable. He wanted this to be good for both of them, not just a show of dominance on his part. Well, not completely.

He shuffled back slightly and braced his hands on Sherlock's shoulders as he pushed himself deeper into his hot, wet mouth. Earlier, Sherlock had been able to take about two-thirds of his cock. It had been amazing, regardless - the best cocksucking relied on finesse rather than the ability to take it all - but the sheer amazement of seeing his entire length disappear between those perfect, stretched lips made him gasp. And then there was the exquisite sensation of it - the soft wet slide across Sherlock's tongue felt heavenly, and when he pushed in further, the narrowing of his throat surrounded the head of his cock in a slick, tight embrace.

Sherlock's body tensed, and John looked up long enough to see why; Mycroft had moved further down his brother's body and taken him into his mouth. John suspected Sherlock would have bucked up into it, but Mycroft's hands pinned his hips firmly to the bed.

"I'd like to see how your massive intellect deals with this," John muttered, grinning.

John continued to take Sherlock's mouth. It was, indeed, the perfect angle. He'd started slowly, but Sherlock seemed to have no problem taking him almost all the way in, especially for short periods of time. He smiled to himself; the thought of fucking his face with abandon hung tantalisingly in his mind, but it wasn't time. Not yet. He contented himself with long, sure strokes, pulling almost all the way out of Sherlock's mouth and then pushing back in. Nothing John did seemed to bother him; he willingly offered up his mouth and throat for John's pleasure.

The sensation of his balls slapping against Sherlock's face sent a curl of heat up his spine, and suddenly he wanted more. John pulled all the way out, and Sherlock gasped in a few deep breaths - probably the first he'd had in a while. John cradled the back of Sherlock's head with one hand and raised it level with the bed. Sherlock didn't have to be told - he opened his mouth wide and sucked one of John's balls into his mouth, moaning and swirling his tongue across it. The vibrations of his moans and the sudden sensation of heat jerked out a stream of pre-ejaculate from his cock. It dripped down onto Sherlock's wet chin, looking deliciously obscene. After a while, John fed him the other one, his eyes rolling back at the exquisite sensation.

He glanced up. Mycroft seemed to be giving Sherlock a masterful blowjob, and John couldn't help but wonder where Sherlock's concentration lay. Certainly Mycroft had it at the moment. Perhaps they could play tug-of-war with Sherlock's attention.

He needed his cock back in Sherlock's mouth. Now. John lowered Sherlock's head back down to rest against the side of the bed, and his ball slipped out of Sherlock's mouth with a wet 'pop'.

"You taste delicious," Sherlock said before John could fill his mouth.

"It looks like you do, too," John replied, looking at Mycroft; he had Sherlock's entire length in his mouth, despite the somewhat awkward angle. One of Mycroft's hands had disappeared from Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock's body arched upwards as his brother breached him with a finger while continuing the blowjob unabated. _One finger? More? _John couldn't see, but his imagination filled in the details. And the details were fucking hot.

"Okay you, break's over," he said, looking down at Sherlock. "I'm gonna fuck your throat raw."

Sherlock smiled and opened his mouth as wide as he could.

_God. What a sight._

He braced himself against Sherlock's shoulders once more. He'd need the stability in order to push his cock hard and fast into Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock let his arms - no longer pinned to the bed - drop free, dangling straight out at right angles to his body.

"Is that comfortable?" John asked, incredulously; it looked anything but.

"Surprisingly, yes," Sherlock replied.

John filed it away under the category of Weird Sex Positions and briefly wondered how Sherlock's arms would look tied to a bamboo pole, splayed out like this. The idea seemed delicious, but unlikely; he didn't have a bamboo pole, for one.

Sherlock moaned as Mycroft captured his attention once more, no doubt grazing his prostate or doing something equally distracting and gloriously devastating. Mycroft seemed to have just as much skill at sex as he did with politics. John felt a faint pang of jealousy at what they had together, but it was quickly forgotten as he guided his cock back into Sherlock's waiting mouth. He'd planned to stop halfway through the blowjob and fuck his arse, but this - this was unreal. All he could think about now was fucking his face with abandon.

After a few strokes to re-acclimatise him, there was no holding back. Sherlock's whole body tensed as he made his first, hard thrust, but he didn't gag. Each push seemed to go deeper, although John didn't see how that could be possible.

He took one hand from Sherlock's shoulder and placed it on his elongated neck. He could feel his cock moving against the entrance to Sherlock's throat _with his hand. _The utter strangeness of this - feeling Sherlock's body yield to him both inside his mouth and outside on his neck - was a complete mind-fuck.

The muscles of Sherlock's throat were slick and tight around the head of his cock. It almost felt like breaching someone's arse, but without the satisfaction of that inexorable slide inside. His body unconsciously responded by pushing in harder, desperate to be deeper. Tighter.

Sense finally crawled through the thick fog of pleasure and reminded him to give Sherlock air. He wasn't sure how Sherlock managed to go for so long without breathing, but once he pulled back far enough, Sherlock gasped a deep breath through his nose. Then one of Sherlock's hands found his arse and pulled him back down into his throat, and sense once again took a backseat. Everything had taken a backseat. He had no idea what Mycroft was doing. Hell, he wouldn't know if the flat was burning down around them. The whole world had been reduced to his cock and Sherlock's mouth.

And then, Sherlock swallowed.

The muscles of his throat contracted against the head of his cock, stimulating it. _Oh God. _It felt amazing. Bizarre. Mind-blowing.

He heard himself swear, and Sherlock did it again.

His hand flew back to brace himself on Sherlock's other shoulder. There was no way he could cope with sensations like this while leaning on one arm.

Sherlock kept trying to pull him deeper and swallowed whenever he could.

It was doing him in.

"Gonna come," he managed to mutter, just in case Sherlock didn't want him to come in his mouth, but Sherlock apparently had no such issues. John's entire body tensed as he came violently, shooting his load deep down Sherlock's waiting throat.

John rode out the aftershocks, muttering obscenities and praises.

He pulled out of Sherlock's mouth, gasping at the sensitivity of his cock. When he glanced down, he was horrified to see that Sherlock's face was almost crimson. He'd lost track of time. How long had he been hanging off the side of the bed, upside down like this? _Fuck._

Sherlock gave him a massive grin, his wild curls splayed out around him; he didn't seem to care. John dropped to one knee and cradled Sherlock's head, supporting his neck and slowly raising it level with the bed. Mycroft was still sucking him off, but he glanced up and saw what was happening. He took his finger out from Sherlock's arse and gently tugged him down so that his entire body was back on the bed.

"You all right?" John asked, worried.

"Don't be silly, I'm fine," Sherlock replied. He lifted his head, but rapidly dropped it back onto the bed.

"Dizzy?" John asked.

"Obvious." Then he added, "My, why'd you stop?"

Mycroft chuckled and went back to sucking his brother's cock.

John crawled onto the bed with them and lay down next to Sherlock on his side, curling over him, sliding his hands across his skin, _memorising him. _He could feel the tension throughout Sherlock's body as he got closer to orgasm, his brother's mouth and hands guiding him down that inexorable path. Without John vying for his concentration, the pleasure seemed to assault him hard and fast, and John watched with fascination as his brother took him apart.

It didn't take long.

Sherlock moaned his brother's name and threw his head back as he came, his face contorted in bliss. Mycroft swallowed his semen down and pulled off him. After he wiped his face with the back of his hand, he beamed at his brother. "That was lovely," he said.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "It was. Thanks."

Mycroft pulled himself across the bed to lie on the other side of Sherlock. John saw that he was still half-hard, and that he'd never gotten off.

"Do you want me to…?" he started.

"No, I'm fine," Mycroft replied with a kind smile. "Thanks, though."

He curled around his brother in a mirror image of John. Sherlock lay between them surrounded by warm skin. _Surprisingly clean, dry, lubricant-free skin_, John realised idly. _Blowjobs. Self-cleaning. _He giggled a little and Sherlock looked at him. "Self-cleaning sex," John explained.

"Mm, I suppose so," he replied in a neurochemical haze.

Mycroft rolled his eyes but grinned and curled closer to Sherlock. He pulled the bedspread off the pillows and down over the three of them.

The warmth and the post-orgasmic bliss settled over him and he drifted off into a light, pleasant doze.

Sometime later, the words "You awake?" drifted through his consciousness and he opened his eyes blearily. Sherlock was looking at him.

John squinted. "Huh?"

"I'm awake. You were both asleep. I had to wake one of you up to get off the bed, and you're on the open side of the bedclothes."

"Why do you have to get up?" John moaned, perfectly content to stay in his warm cocoon of bedspread and Sherlock.

"I'm bored."

Mycroft stirred. "Sherlock, go back to sleep," he mumbled.

Sherlock remained undaunted. "I want tea."

Mycroft groaned.

"You never want tea," John replied. "Is he always like this, Mycroft?"

"Yes. Whenever he's bored or not the centre of attention."

"Ah, right. Of course." He realised, with some amusement, that he was bonding with Mycroft (_Mycroft!)_ over their mutual experiences in dealing with a brilliant five year old. Given that neither of them actually wanted to leave the bed, they both nuzzled closer to give Sherlock the attention he wanted. It wasn't as if either of them could change his behaviour; they might as well give in and everyone would be happy.

* * *

"So… where does this leave us… exactly?" John asked, as they sat in the living room.

It was the awkward type of conversation that was only possible after having sex with your roommate and his brother.

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other.

He'd gone up to his room to get fresh clothes after they all woke could hear their murmurings as he went up the stairs and he hoped like hell that they hadn't just made some awful mistake. No - that _he _hadn't made some awful mistake. He didn't think Sherlock and Mycroft generally made mistakes of this magnitude.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically gentle with his reply. "It doesn't really change anything, John. Mycroft and I are still together. This doesn't change that."

"I know; I didn't expect it to, but…" he trailed off, not sure how to continue.

"You're wondering if this changes things between us. Of course it does, but not for the worse, I hope. We're both adults."

John stifled a laugh.

Sherlock smiled and added, "Mostly."

"I have to know though - was this just a one-time thing? Which is fine, by the way. I can understand that."

"We talked…" Sherlock started and then trailed off.

"Right. Of course." _Well, it was good while it lasted. _

"No, John," Mycroft chimed in. "We talked. Neither of us quite expected this to be, well, quite what it was. If you're not against it, I think both of us would be open to the idea of this happening again. Occasionally."

John looked up, stunned. "Really?"

"Yes. You must understand though, this relationship would only be sexual in nature, with no emotional component."

"I believe the phrase Mycroft is groping for is 'friends with benefits'," Sherlock added. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

Mycroft nodded.

"Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds quite good then," he replied, trying to stay cool. Trying to pretend this was a perfectly normal occurrence that of course he understood.

Because everyone slept with their flatmate. And his brother. On a purely sexual basis. Occasionally.


End file.
